


The Morning After

by noodleinabarrel



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Accidental Marriage, Angst, Bonding, Dreamsharing, Drinking, Insecurity, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Sharing a Bed, Shore Leave, Skinny Dipping, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodleinabarrel/pseuds/noodleinabarrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim convinces Spock to take shore leave with him on Risa, hoping the time together will help re-solidify their bond of friendship after some recent tension. Meanwhile, Spock convinces himself he's on Risa for one reason and one reason only, to prevent his wayward captain from getting into trouble.<br/>After a passionately illogical night of Romulan Ale and chocolate infused liquor, everything changes when Jim wakes with something other than a hangover filling his head. Something he's sure neither he nor Spock can handle. Because if Jim knows anything for sure, it's that his messed up thoughts belong nowhere near Spock's clean, ordered mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [T'hy'la Big Bang 2016](http://thylabigbang.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Many thanks to [spockfucker](http://spockfucker.tumblr.com/) for the beta read and helpful editing suggestions! 
> 
> Companion artwork by my awesome Big Bang teammates can be found here:  
> Art by [spockfucker](http://spockfucker.tumblr.com/post/139588487264/)  
> Art by [blankindexcards](http://blankindexcards.tumblr.com/post/139624929713/my-submission-for-this-years-thyla-big-bang)

 

 

“Marry me,” Jim blurted. The words burned his mouth while heat filled his skull, warm, consuming, addictive. Revelation pierced through his drunken haze like a beam of undiscovered starlight. He had never felt so sure of anything his life. If that wasn't a sign this was meant to be, what was?

The cool fingers still resting firm against his cheek and forehead only made Jim burn brighter. The back of his eyes stung as his gaze gripped the Vulcan’s. A second hand pressed itself against Jim’s chin, a single finger tracing the edge of his lip. Jim pulled it into his mouth with a flick of his tongue as a single word escaped Spock’s mouth on a whispering breath.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Spock had made a grievous error. When the captain had returned from shore leave with a loose stride, swollen lips, and a glaring bruise decorating his neck, purple from broken capillaries, Spock had instantly felt uneasy. A human may have called the prickling beneath Spock’s skull intuition. Spock chose to describe it as a logical understanding of his captain's promiscuous behavior that had caused eight different disturbances Spock knew of.

Before his departure to Endoria for five days of shore leave, the Enterprise’s command team had been invited to dinner at the Endorian ambassador’s home. Several members of the vast party had directed their licentious gazes at the captain’s person. Their attention had not gone unnoticed by Spock or the captain, who had spent the evening returning it with tilted grins that pronounced the structure of his cheekbones and caused a creasing effect around his eyes that outlined their startling shade of blue.

Evaluating the evidence, Spock had estimated the likelihood that Kirk had participated in sexual activities with one or more of the planet’s citizens at ninety seven point nine percent.

Kirk’s smile was too wide, his pupils markedly dilated. “You missed out on a good time, Spock. Hope the labs were worth it.” He slapped Spock on the back as he passed, a brief second of touch. It lingered as a hand shaped press of heat after Spock returned to his quarters to meditate on his captain’s appearance and the actions that likely caused it.

When they returned to Endoria three point six months later to establish a trade contract on behalf of the Federation, an Endorian male made contact with the captain and insisted, as per the planet’s mating laws, that the captain was now his legal husband, despite Kirk’s confirmation that their relationship had been a temporary one. Several legal disputes arouse around the subsequent explanations required to clear the misunderstanding Kirk’s unhindered promiscuity had caused. The resulting pile of paperwork added an unnecessary supplement to the captain’s workload during his already rigorous schedule of diplomatic talks.

Spock was unsurprised by the occurrence, only disappointed with himself for not preventing it. This was not the first time the captain’s charming demeanor combined with the ease of a shore leave environment had created a disruption around Kirk. Spock recalled the situation on Fradus when Kirk had been restrained by authorities for touching the shoulder of the royal consort in an overly friendly manner during a social event. It proved necessary for Nyota to cancel the trip she had planned to observe the local hot springs in order to assist with negotiations to garner Kirk's release. Her agitation resulted in the captain offering to forsake his next leave to recompense Nyota's own.

On Asteteyer II, a similar arrest took place when the captain found it necessary to engage in sexual intercourse with the romantic partner of a local magistrate. Kirk claimed ignorance about her monogamous involvement with another, insisting she had expressed a genuine curiosity in how human genitalia functioned, and disappointing such a keen mind would have been against his personal philosophy.

On Marvius V, a planet known for its extreme sports, the captain’s disregard for his own safety had proved almost fatal. Encouraged by a local he had befriended the day after his shore leave began, Kirk had participated in several dangerous leisure activities. While jumping from a plane, Kirk’s parachute had malfunctioned, the mechanism releasing too late for a safe landing. The captain hit the ground at an awkward angle that broke his left femur, his right wrist bone, and fractured two ribs.

All of these disruptive encounters had occurred when the captain took his shore leave alone, each of them causing significant stress when he was required to resolve the consequential misunderstandings or heal from his injuries. Although the captain’s approachable nature had demonstrated use during diplomatic missions and in garnering his crew’s loyalty, Spock detected a fallacy in Kirk’s physical openness with everyone and anyone who befriended him when he had no companion to direct his boisterous attentions upon. The captain did not like to disappoint. He also became bored during extended amounts of solitude.

Spock was beginning to tire of observing the wide casting of the captain’s perilously loose net and the conflicts collected among its fraying weave. So, when the Enterprise arrived at Risa, an event much anticipated by the crew, their first expedition to the renowned pleasure planet, Spock reviewed the requests for leave. The captain’s usual cohort on shared leaves, Doctor McCoy, was not on the list. He questioned Kirk’s other social companions, Lieutenant Sulu and Lieutenant Commander Scott. Both reported plans that included other members of the crew. Nyota, a frequent confidant of Kirk’s, also expressed no knowledge of the captain’s plans.

Upon the gathering of this information, Spock found it logical to submit a request for leave.

Ten minutes after submitting the request, Spock felt Kirk’s body heat enter his immediate space. “You’re taking shore leave,” the captain's voice intoned with a raised hint of disbelief.

“Affirmative,” Spock replied, not looking up from the schematics he was analyzing on the science station’s console.

“You never take shore leave.”

“Doctor McCoy has informed me on multiple occasions that participating in an extended amount of leisure time would be beneficial to my well-being.”

Kirk huffed. “Since when do you listen to Bones?”

“Although his speech is rarely unimpeded by emotional outbursts, the doctor’s medical advice is logically sound.”

Kirk narrowed his eyes, sweeping his pupils up and down as he leaned in, a hand resting on the back of Spock’s chair. “Is something wrong? You’re not sick, are you?”

“I am functioning optimally.” Spock raised his focus from the console. “I have acquired six months and eighteen days of shore leave. It would be wasteful not to make use of them.”

Kirk straightened, a smile softening his observant gaze. “Okay.” He swiped a finger along his PADD, Spock’s leave request lit across the screen. “If anyone deserves a good time, it’s you, Spock.”

Spock raised an eyebrow.

Smirking, Kirk followed the upward sweep before lowering his eyes back to his PADD. “I’ll accept your request, of course, but on one condition.” As the captain leaned against the station, his knees grazing Spock’s calf, the commander hoped Kirk’s posterior would not interfere with the carefully aligned settings, as it had eight days ago when Kirk’s gluteus maximus shifted the readings on a nearby star, leaving Spock, after Kirk had returned to the center chair, with outputs of the star’s mass instead of its radiation levels. Spock had observed Kirk’s tendency to use the science station as he might use a bar stool in the ship’s lounge, or McCoy’s shoulder after consuming alcoholic substances. Although this habit of the captain’s to lean on delicate computer systems occasionally altered a sequence in Spock’s algorithms, Spock had not pointed out the inconvenience. It would be illogical to waste breath on attempting to correct a habit the captain so assuredly enjoyed indulging in.

“It would be unethical to place a requisite on vacation hours that are provided by Starfleet under the conditions of my employment,” Spock debated.

Kirk rested his hands against his thighs, leaning forward until his knees bumped Spock’s. “Bear with me, here, Commander. It’s all to maximize the beneficial qualities of shore leave. Very logical.”

Spock looked down at where their knee caps joined and then up again. “I see. Please state your condition, sir.”

Kirk tilted back, the fresh weight against the console likely disturbing the station’s recent calculations. Spock noted the time length so he could correct any error when Kirk's discourse ended. “You have to spend some of your leave with me,” he stated.

Spock peered at the numbers lining the screen to the left of Kirk’s hip. A definite anomaly was present. “Very well,” he replied, typing the error margin into his PADD.

Kirk made a choking sound. Although it was unlikely the captain was in danger, as he had not been consuming anything during their conversation, Spock glanced up quickly, noting the expansion of his pupils. “Really?” Kirk repeated unnecessarily.

“Affirmative,” Spock confirmed. It had been his intention to watch Kirk’s movements closely during shore leave to prevent the captain’s engagement in troubling activities. Kirk’s desire to keep his first officer in close proximity would only raise the efficiency level of Spock’s mission.

The captain blinked rapidly. “I’m dreaming.”

“Negative. You are currently conscious.” Spock peered beyond Kirk’s thigh to record another anomalous output of data.

“You’re actually agreeing to spend a week with me away from the ship. I can’t believe it.” The captain’s eyes fixated on Spock’s. “You do realize that shore leave means we’ll be hanging out for fun? That it doesn’t involve any Starfleet duties.”

“I am aware of this fact, Captain.” Spock was unsure what to make of Kirk’s incredulity. The two of them had spent leisure time together amicably in the past. Perhaps Kirk had noticed the distance Spock had been attempting to enforce between himself and the captain for logical reasons after the episode on Ceti Alpha III twenty four days ago. They had not socialized since unless it was in the company of others, such as Lieutenant Marcus’ movie nights every Saturday evening or Lieutenant Giotto’s group workout regimes on Wednesday mornings.

Spock watched the infinitesimal shift of Kirk’s smile into a grin, teeth flashing. “Great, that’s great!” He slapped Spock’s arm in what the Vulcan had learned through inference was a gesture of comradery or friendly excitement among humans. “It’s been awhile since we hung out. We’ll have a blast!”

“I would hope not.” Spock’s eyebrows drew together. Violent occurrences such as explosions were specifically what Spock would be attempting to avert Kirk from.

When the captain returned to his chair, engaging Ensign Chekov in conversation about the Enterprise’s travel trajectory, Nyota turned in her seat. Spock was certain she had heard every word of their conversation. The lieutenant possessed excellent auditory capabilities.

“Is something going on between you and Jim?” she asked in a hushed tone.

Spock raised an eye brow. “Clarify.”

“Off the bridge, you’ve been avoiding him like the plague for weeks. But now you’re suddenly going on vacation with him?” She stared at him pointedly. “That’s rather inconsistent behavior. For you.”

Apparently his avoidance of the captain had not been so subtle after all. The image of Jim’s face when he invited Spock to play chess in his quarters for the tenth time in two weeks came to the forefront of his thoughts. The captain had not asked since.

“As you know, the captain habitually finds himself in trouble when left to his own devices during shore leave. It is my intention to keep him from associating with bothersome individuals or partaking in perilous activities while he is unrestricted by his duties aboard the Enterprise.”

Nyota pursed her lips. “You mean stop him from having sex with anyone.”

Spock felt his eyes widen a fraction of a millimeter at the blunt statement.

“Spock,” Nyota whispered, leaning closer. “You can’t dance around your feelings forever. This is a small ship and Jim’s going to be in your face for the next three years. I’m worried all that suppression—”

“Hey! What are you two whispering about?” Jim looked up from his surveillance of the navigation screen over Chekov’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you picked up on another space anomaly bent on biting us in the ass.”

“No ass biting in your foreseeable future, Captain,” Nyota replied.

“Negative,” Spock answered at the same time. Kirk looked between them, staring at his first officer with a quizzical expression that lasted several seconds longer than necessary. When the captain’s gaze did not avert itself within a reasonable timeframe, Spock returned his attention to his console to rectify the errors created by the captain’s inconvenient seating choices.

 

*

“Hallelujah, the Vulcan taking my advice. It’s a damn near miracle.”

“Please contain yourself, Doctor,” Spock said as he approached the transporter with Jim and other members of the crew taking their shore leave. “If such emotionalism continues, it is unlikely my act of acquiescence will be repeated in the future.”

“Always got to have the last word, you green blooded stick in the mud. I swear—”

Jim clutched McCoy’s arm, grinning at him broadly. “Leave it Bones. Watch your blood pressure.”

“Watch my blood pressure?” the doctor sputtered, shaking his head with pursed lips. “Says the kid that’s been steadily raising my blood pressure ever since I met him.”

Kirk wrapped himself around Bones in a hug. “Thanks, Len. Gonna miss you.” Spock watched the demonstration, containing the twitch in his eyebrow. He wondered why the captain found in necessary to express gratitude toward the doctor for the ill effect he had upon McCoy’s health. An apology would have been more apt.

McCoy returned the hug after an indiscernible grumble and expletive. “For once I'm not worried about you getting into trouble on another pleasure planet.” Doctor McCoy extracted Jim from his person, his eyes shifting back and forth between Spock and the captain. “One good thing about Spock, he’s more likely to get you doing some mediation on the beach, instead of dragging you to some unsavory bar in a grungy dark alleyway.”

“Hey—don’t underestimate Spock’s ability to get unsavory, Bones.” Jim turned to Spock and winked.

Spock could not control the confused raise of his brow. “I do not ‘get unsavory,’ Captain.”

“We’ll see,” Jim replied, nudging Spock briefly with his elbow.

“I assure you, we will not be visiting any unlit alleyways or disreputable establishments.” Spock picked up his bag and stepped onto the transporter.

“Just keep Jim in one piece, so I don’t have a mess to clean up when he gets back,” Bones huffed, moving back from the transporter, eyes intent on Spock.

“Stop fussing, I'll be fine!” Jim grimaced as he took the pad beside Spock.

“I will do my best to ensure that is the case,” Spock added. Jim glanced up at him with a warm expression, eyes bright as the transporter's light filled his vision.

 

*

Despite Doctor McCoy's predictions, the captain had no intention of spending shore leave in quiet meditation.

“Risa!” Kirk dropped his bag to the sidewalk and raised his arms in the air. Resting his hands on his hips, the captain inhaled loudly.

“Smell that, Spock?”

Spock sniffed delicately, resisting the temptation to hold his breath and risk injuring his respiratory systems. “Which scent are you referring to, sir? The excess of manufactured scents covering the distinct odor of a variety of sweat induced humanoids? Food covered in an excessive amount of grease or sugar, ingredients known to cause indigestion, clogged arteries and a variety of medical conditions? The smell of fornication fluids issuing from the pleasure house to our right? Or the scent of salt water and decaying seaweed emanating from the Risan Ocean three point two miles away?”

Kirk grinned at him, slapping Spock’s chest. The expression was friendly in nature, rather than aggressive, if Spock had judged the captain’s body language correctly over the past two years. “All of the above!” he announced.

“Then, yes, Captain, I do smell them.”

Letting out an exaggerated exhale of breath, Kirk grabbed his bag and gestured toward the air car rentals at the end of the street. “Uh uh. No more sir this and captain that while we’re on shore leave.” Taking Spock’s bag, Kirk loaded their luggage into the next available cab, and clambered into the back seat beside Spock. “Cressida Hotel,” he directed to the automated driving system.

“Although we are off duty, your position in Starfleet has not changed, Captain,” Spock replied glancing at their colorful surroundings outside the window of the cab. Every corner appeared to be inhabited by a store selling alcohol or advertising other distasteful temptations. Risa’s reputation as a bawdry planet catering to every pleasure imaginable was renowned. Spock’s mission would prove a difficult one.

“Don’t sass me, Spock.” Kirk lifted his eyes to the roof of the cab and around. “Formal address is messing with my shore leave vibe. We’re here to relax, let off some steam. Do it as a favor to me.” Stretching out a single finger, Jim poked Spock on his bicep. “Call me, Jim.”

Spock ceased compiling a mental list of the specific establishments he should prevent the captain from visiting, and returned his attention back to his friend. “I am not a liquid substance, Jim. I cannot produce steam.”

“That’s it!” Excitement exuded from the human in exaggerated hand gestures as he patted Spock’s arm. “I knew you could do it.”

“Obviously you were aware of this face. As I have a mouth and functional vocal cords, I possess the ability to verbalize a single syllable.”

“Well done, Spock.” If Jim’s grin grew any greater in width, Spock would begin to wonder about the elasticity of the captain's jaw.

They arrived at the hotel ten point three minutes later. Jim insisted on carrying both their bags despite Spock’s greater Vulcan strength. As debating petty matters with Jim had proved futile in the past, Spock conceded, determining to save arguments for later in the evening. After McCoy had learned of Spock’s intention to join Jim on Risa, the doctor had pulled him aside and provided a list of Jim’s favorite holiday pursuits, recounted past shore leave escapades, and warned Spock to be more vigilant after sunset, as Jim generally pursued riskier activities during that time period.

Jim had chosen their hotel, as was evidenced by the luxurious interior. When Spock commented on the overindulgence, Jim laughed it off.

“We’re on a pleasure planet. All the hotels on Risa are like this.”

It would be a test of Spock’s mental capacities to meditate within these surroundings. As they entered the lobby, overly bright with walls painted in pastels that made Spock blink, a Risan woman dressed in form fitting clothing greeted them with a smile that lit up her face. Jim returned it with an illuminating grin of his own.

“Welcome to Risa, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

Leaning against the counter, Jim glanced down at the name tag pinned to the attendant's shirt. “Hi Elice, we’re just checking in. Booking is under Jim Kirk.”

“Fantastic!” the attendant replied with more enthusiasm than Spock deemed obligatory for such a common situation. A large amount of guests likely arrived and departed from the hotel daily. Since Risa possessed perpetually mild weather, the planet never experienced an off-peak travel season. “Let me pull up your reservation.” Bending her head, Elice clacked her long polished nails against her computer console while Jim continued to watch her with eyes that crinkled at the edges. Spock had seen Jim use that same expression on other beings he found physically attractive, a look that occasionally accumulated in Kirk leaving diplomatic functions with said being pressed close to him. The captain would not be seen again until the following morning, grinning so wide that Spock could see the plaque on his maxillary molars.

Spock made a note to direct Jim away from any aesthetically pleasing hotel attendants considering their inconvenient proximity to the captain’s sleeping quarters.

“Ah yes, here you are. One room, ocean view.” The attendant placed a key chip on the counter.

Jim frowned, a likely exaggerated version of Spock’s own expression. “Can you check again, Elice? Pretty sure I booked two rooms.”

“Oh, I see.” Elice's smile wavered briefly as she inspected the computer screen. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kirk.” Spock was fascinated at the woman’s ability to appear pleased and horrified at the same time. “It appears your second room was double booked.”

“Do you have another one available?” Jim asked.

“I’m afraid not. We’re booked solid for the week.” She lowered her eyes. “Your room will, of course, be provided to you at a discount for the inconvenience caused.”

Jim glanced at Spock. “Do you mind sharing a room? I know this isn’t ideal.”

Spock did not mind. In fact, the situation was highly ideal. The added proximity of shared quarters would heighten the probability of Spock’s mission being successful. Even Jim was unlikely to bring a sexual conquest back to his quarters if Spock was in residence. And Spock would be better able to keep an eye on Jim’s movements.

“I do not mind,” Spock replied.

Jim’s eyes widened in response. “You’re full of surprises lately.” Grabbing their room key and both their bags, Jim smiled consolingly to the flustered attendant as they headed toward the lift. “First you ask for leave, no needling required on my part, and now you’re okay bunking with me for a week. Sure I won’t offend your Vulcan sensibilities? I know how important space is to you.”

“We have shared close quarters in a professional capacity before.” As Jim’s hands were full of their luggage, Spock pressed the lift button for the fourth floor. “If you recall, we shared a sleeping bag in order to conserve body heat during the incident on Ceti Alpha III.”

Jim cleared his throat. “Yeah, but that was under duress. We had no choice.” He glanced at Spock from his peripheral vision, then looked ahead to the lift's door. Spock observed the furtive expression and wondered at the possibility of its meaning.

“There is always a choice.” Spock said. “Are you not always advocating that fact?”

“Yeah, well, there’s choice, as in doing something because you don’t want to freeze your butt off. And then there's choosing to do something because you want to do it.”

“I see.” Spock replied, as they stepped out of the lift and down the hallway. It was unlikely that Spock had misinterpreted the feelings transferred through their skin to skin contact when, in an attempt to prevent frost bite, he had warmed Jim’s hands under his own during their night on Ceti Alpha III. At first, the captain’s thoughts had excited the pads of Spock’s fingers, leaving him with a desire to hear more, feel more of Jim’s heat. Jim’s emotions had chilled bare moments later as the captain pulled away with a mumbled apology, leaving Spock to process the enormity of his desire, the expanse of Jim’s back providing little defense against the frost seeping through their sleeping bag. Spock had not slept that night; Jim’s had been restless.

Spock caught Jim’s second glance through his peripheral vision before the captain moved to swipe their room key in front of the door lock, shuffling inside with their bags.

 

*

The room contained a single king bed.

“Uh,” Jim mumbled in front of the bed, glancing at Spock and away again. Spock identified a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and could not help admiring the irony of the situation. A most human realization, but an apt one, nonetheless.

“Looks like we’ll be repeating the Ceti Alpha III incident” Jim’s laugh was notably loud, breaking off suddenly when he turned to face Spock. The glance lasted point five milliseconds.

“This situation is significantly different. The incident you refer to that led to our cohabitation was a blizzard in a wilderness landscape with no enclosed shelter within a manageably traversable distance during dangerous conditions.” Spock rested his hands loosely behind his back and turned to face Jim who was fiddling intently at the zipper on his suitcase as if he had never used the contraption before. “As we find ourselves in a favorably rated hotel room on a planet that has an average temperature between twenty five to forty eight degrees Celsius year round and has never recorded an instance of snow, our current position is clearly quite dissimilar to the last time we shared sleeping quarters.”

Abandoning the zipper, Jim looked up at Spock, an oddly serious countenance lining his face. “So. You’re fine with this?” Jim pointed a hand at the bed. “It doesn’t bother you, at all?”

Spock looked at the bed. “It has an overabundance of pillows, more than I would prefer for optimal comfort. However, they can easily be removed.”

Returning his attention to his luggage, Jim succeeded in opening the suitcase, and proceeded to rummage within its depths, tossing crumpled clothing to the overly plush carpet. Spock could barely see the top of his toes sunk within its mass. “I’ll take the extra pillows and sleep on the floor,” Jim muttered.

“That is unnecessary. The bed is sufficiently sized to comfortably fit multiple humanoids.”

“It’s okay, really. I’m fine with the floor. Like you said, no snowstorms this time.”

Spock frowned, wary of Jim’s sudden instance on space. The captain was regularly insinuating his presence into Spock’s without apparent thought, as if the motions came to him naturally. “If you are uncomfortable sharing the bed, Captain, I will reside on the floor. Vulcans require less sleep than humans.”

Jim huffed, grabbing clothing and shoving them unfolded into the cupboards against the wall. “I’m not uncomfortable. Just—” he turned away closing the drawer with a snap. “Look, forget it. If you’re cool with the bed thing, we can get all nice and cozy. Bonding is a good thing.”

Spock blinked at the word choice. “Bonding, Captain?”

“Yeah. Solidifying our bonds of friendship with increased exposure to each other. Or whatever.” Jim turned back to face Spock, a grin once again planted on his face. “And stop it with the captains. I won’t let you be pissed at me over this.”

“I am not pissed, Captain.”

“I am not pissed, Jim.”

Spock glared at him, which Jim apparently found amusing as he responded with a bark of laughter.

“Let’s get out of here, I want to check out the sights.”

 

*

“What about this place?” Jim gestured at the restaurant before him. The placard above the door blinked jarringly and several of the lighting bulbs needed replacing.

“I am experiencing a loss of appetite at the thought of eating at an establishment named ‘Good Grubs.’”

“Ok fine. That one, then?” Jim pointed to a building across the street where a group of five inebriated Tellarites were ambling out of the doors.

“No,” Spock replied emphatically.

“Ugh,” Jim mumbled, releasing a large expanse of breath as he rubbed a hand against his stomach. “I’m starving, Spock. Obviously my tastes aren’t up to your high standards, so just pick something.”

Spock pulled his PADD from the bag resting against his hip. “What cuisine do you wish to consume?”

“Anything edible, I really don’t care at this point. You’ve been dragging me around museums for hours. I didn’t even think Risa had museums.”

“I researched the area extensively before our visit and recorded thirty six culturally significant monuments and institutions within the area.” Spock tapped his fingers on the screen, opening up a restaurant review site on his net connection for the Risan capital. “There is an Andorian restaurant that will take approximately five point three minutes to walk to considering your slackened pace due to fatigue. It has average reviews of four point three out five stars. Additionally there is a restaurant serving Italian cuisine four point eight minutes away that has a four point two star review.”

“The Italian. It’s closer.”

“Only by thirty seconds.” Spock opened up the linked menu on his PADD.

“That’s already too far.” Jim moved into Spock’s space, glancing down at the screen. “It’s not all meat is it?”

“The restaurant’s menu contains five vegetarian dishes that, judging by the descriptions, would be palpable to my taste.”

“Great, lead the way. Gods, I’m hungry,” Jim moaned.

After memorizing the directions to the restaurant, Spock stored away his PADD, glancing at the hand Jim clutched against his stomach, before turning right down the intersection, Jim following close behind.

 

“We’re lost,” Jim groaned, six point two minutes later. “We’ve been wandering around for way more than four point whatever minutes.”

“We are not lost. It is may be possible that I under calculated the timeframe as our pace has reduced.” Spock pulled his PADD out again, zooming into the directions on the map. His memory had not failed. The GPS stated that their destination was ten meters away.

Jim stepped closer, his voice quieting. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m an asshole when I’m hungry.”

“I have noticed the effect your blood sugar levels have upon your mood.” Jim occasionally kicked the synthesizer when it replicated slowly or produced an error. Four months ago, when participants refused meals during a treaty discussion on Trion II until the opposing party had agreed to their terms, Jim had lectured the ambassadors for using ‘dirty tricks’ and ‘starving techniques.’

“That obvious, huh?” Jim shifted his weight onto his left foot and looked around at the buildings along the street. “You must be as hungry as me though. We haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Although my body does require nutritional sustenance, I am able to control the symptoms of hunger by applying the use of Vulcan mental techniques.”

Jim stared at him. “That’s useful. Wish I could do that.”

Spock nodded. “Although humans do not have the same mental capacities as Vulcans, there are several meditative techniques I could instruct you on that may help suppress distracting bodily demands.”

Jim’s mouth pressed into a firm line as he attempted to suppress a smile. The creasing around his eyes betrayed his efforts. “Pretty sure I’ll make a shitty pupil if meditation in involved,” he said, “but it’s worth a try. I told myself off for days after almost freaking out at the ambassador on Urio when he served us, what was it, a single bean for dinner?”

“I believe jraf seeds are a delicacy on Urio. However, despite it’s worth to the Urioans, I also found it unfulfilling nutritionally.”

Jim grinned. “Speaking of being unfilled, where the hell in this restaurant? Let me see.” Jim held out his hand.

Spock passed his PADD to the captain, noting the placement of his hand on the other end of the device as he took it. Jim was generally more negligent about where he let his fingers settle. As he observed the ten point three centimeter distance between his own fingers and Jim’s, Spock wondered if the captain’s caution around his first officer’s hands had developed after Ceti Alpha III.

Shaking his head, Jim laughed lightly. “Ok, I’m being an idiot. We’re almost there.”

“Affirmative.” Spock took the PADD back from Jim, allowing himself the luxury of moving his fingers a further inch up the base of the device when he took it from the captain’s grasp.

In another one point eight minutes they arrived at the restaurant to the exuberantly vocal glee of Jim. He ordered an appetizer, a main course, extra bread, and dessert, finishing every bite, even though Spock suspected the abundant portion of seafood pasta served by the kitchen would have been enough to fulfill the captain’s current nutritional requirements.

When he requested a large slice of apple pie and ice cream for dessert, Jim begged for help preventing all four hundred and forty calories from taking up residence along his waistline. Although Spock informed Jim that simply not ordering the food item would save him the obligation of eating it, the captain ignored Spock’s logic. Spock did not find the taste of apple pie distasteful, therefore, when Jim held out the extra spoon the waiter had brought, Spock assisted Jim with his self-inflicted dietary blunder.

Spock had not realized how precisely he had missed Jim’s company during meals. Even the companionable silence that hovered between them as they consumed their food was pleasurable to experience.

 

*

Jim flopped face down on the bed next to Spock leaving a noticeable distance of sixty one centimeters between them. The captain had clothed himself in a thick set of fleece pajamas despite the warm evening breeze floating through their open window.

Jim peered at Spock through one eye, the rest of his face buried against an overly stuffed pillow. Although Spock had removed all pillows from his side of the bed except the one now resting beneath his skull, Jim had claimed most of Spock's discards to overly pad his section. Perhaps the captain was expecting major structural damage to occur to the hotel in the middle of the night and was attempting to protect himself against the impact of a caving ceiling. Spock suspected suffocation under an avalanche of stuffing and cotton much more likely.

“You sure you don't mind us bunking together?” Jim queried.

“Vulcans do not lie.” Spock flicked at the PADD between his hands, checking the updates his subordinates in the Enterprise's labs had sent upon his request. “As I previously stated, I do not object to our shared sleeping arrangements.”

“You for sure, for sure?” Jim reiterated, shifting the pillow under his chin, arms crossed over top. “I really don't mind sleeping on the floor. I've slept in shittier places.”

“Sleeping 'shitty,' as you say, would negate the purpose of shore leave,” Spock replied in a monotone, inwardly warming at Jim's snort of laughter. Use of Terran slang never failed to amuse his friend. “Furthermore, with the amount of cushioning you have structured between us, it is as if we were sleeping in separate quarters.” Spock nodded at the wall of pillows Jim had stuffed along the middle of the bed, feeling a senseless loathing toward the inanimate objects.

Smiling sheepishly, Jim rolled onto his side, a hand propped against his cheek. “It's for your safety. In case I roll onto you in my sleep.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow, glancing at his captain beyond the fortification separating them. The harm Jim described was one Spock hardly wished to be saved from. Spock suspected the phrasing was a polite ruse. After their previous shared sleeping experience, Jim was protecting himself from coming into contact with Spock’s exposed skin again.

Looking away, Jim stretched against the pillows, brushing a hand across his face, as if to hide the discomfort clearly denoted in his body language. “Wouldn't want you to pick up on one of my weird perverted dreams.” He laughed noisily. “That would be awkward.”

Spock continued to watch Jim as he squirmed under his gaze, looking away to fluff some pillows that did not require fluffing. He wondered about the object of Jim's desire in these so called perverted dreams and reminded himself of the captain’s varied sexual partners. Spock agreed that being party to related lustful emotions and images conveyed between skin to skin contact by a uncontrollable mind during sleep would be an uncomfortable experience.

“Understood.” Spock returned his attention to his PADD.

Clearing his throat, Jim moved under the sheets. “Well.” A moment passed as Spock counted two exhales and inhales of Jim's breath. “I'm hitting the sack. You can keep the lights on,” he spoke quickly, as Spock turned off his PADD. “It doesn't bother me.”

“Very well.” Spock left his PADD off, despite his lack of fatigue. “Good night,” he murmured in an imitation of human etiquette.

“'Night,” Jim replied, his voice muffled by pillows as he turned onto his left side, facing away from Spock and the soft fortress between them. Spock ordered the lights down to zero percent, crossing his legs atop the covers in preparation for meditation.

 

*

This was not how Spock had expected his shore leave with Jim would proceed. Instead of surrounding himself in the presence of attractive, flirtatious beings, Jim was metaphorically attached to Spock's hip. After dinner the night before, Jim had uncharacteristically refused the offer of a drink from an aesthetically proportioned Risan female, stating his reasoning as “I'm already taken.” Jim, with surprisingly little complaints, agreed to join Spock on his visit to the Risan museum of archaeology the following morning. When a human male had pointedly smiled at Jim in an overtly sexual manner over a display of aquatic fossils, Jim’s eyes had remained on Spock’s as he answered Jim’s query about the evolution of Risian whales.

“I missed this,” Jim said after Spock finished his explanation. The human had wandered away after another failed attempt to garner Jim’s attention from the corner of his eye.

“Which object are you directing your sense of omission toward?” Spock asked, attempting to decipher the expression etched within the lines around Jim’s mouth.

“This.” Jim gestured with his hands, flicking his fingers through the air between them. “Spending time with you. Just talking.”

Spock wondered at the excessive use of the word just in Terran standard. Even the more sociable conversations he shared with Jim never seemed like just talking. Each word Jim had ever spoken to him was now imprinted in Spock’s memory, inspected and analyzed for meaning against the inflection used and the chosen word choice in relation to context.

Spock’s lips parted, his mouth intending to reply, yet his mind unable to formulate a significant response. He closed his mouth again, turning toward the next exhibit.

Jim followed behind, not too close, his voice low among the silence of the room. “We haven’t done this for a while,” he murmured.

“Your statement is accurate. It has been eight months and eighteen days since you agreed to visit a museum with me.” Spock peered down into the case of primitive weapons from the second age of Risian development.

“I’m not talking about museums. I’m talking about us spending time together like we used to.”

Spock’s head dipped a few millimeters southward. “I missed this too, Jim.”

Although he could not see it, Spock heard Jim’s smile in the exhale of his breath.

“Ok. I’ve let you drag me around enough cultural stuff. After we’re done here, I get to pick how we’re spending the afternoon.” Jim pressed his shoulder against Spock’s. It was the first sign of physical affection lasting longer than a second that Spock had received from Jim since their fingers had met on Ceti Alpha III.

Although Spock knew allowing Jim such freedom could prove dangerous to his mission, he dipped his neck in a nod of acceptance.

Spock calculated that the captain had spent fifteen point eight minutes away from Spock's company during their time on Risa up to this moment; most of that time had been to perform ablutions or retrieve high sucrose and salt content snacks from the hotel vending machines. Unsure how to conclusively interpret the captain's behavior and undivided focus on a planet known for averting attentions, Spock allowed himself but a moment to speculate that Jim had orchestrated this joint shore leave in order to deliberately spend time with Spock. Whether it was to, as Jim had stated upon their arrival, 'solidify their bond of friendship with increased exposure to each other’ after Spock’s prescribed distance from Jim over the past month, or for another motive aligned more closely to Spock’s realized attraction to the captain, Spock could not be sure with absolute certainty. Jim was a personable human adept at making those within his presence feel wanted. Indeed, it was a personality trait Spock had come to believe increased the value of his command. For now, Spock could only hypothesize about Jim's true feelings toward his person. It would be illogical and bias his observations if Spock allowed his personal feelings for the captain to cloud his judgment.

A sentiment Spock was currently having difficulty following as he watched Jim step from the ocean waves, water dripping from his hair, dressed in swim shorts that clung to the curving extremities around his hip, leaving nothing to the imagination. He stretched languidly, arms over his head, well defined muscles highlighted along the length of his legs and arms.

“Not coming in?” Jim shook his head, running a hand through his wet locks. Loose droplets landed on Spock's bare feet. Throwing himself onto the chair next to Spock, Jim grabbed a dry towel, rubbing it in harsh circles through his hair and across his skin.

“Spock?” Fingers snapped in front of his eyes.

Spock blinked, staring up at Jim's lifted brow. “Yes?”

“You going for a swim?” Jim repeated.

Spock glanced at the ocean front, currently occupied by four Orions rough housing in the surge, more scantily clad than even the captain. “I am not.”

Jim pushed a pair of sunglasses across his eyes. “Don't blame you, the sun feels good. I could sit here all day and happily burn to a crisp.”

Spock found himself admiring the way the sun turned the sparse hair along Jim's arms and chest a golden hue. “Have you applied sunscreen?” he inquired.

“Nah,” Jim shrugged his shoulders. “I tan better without it.”

“If you return to the ship, as you say, burnt to a crisp, Doctor McCoy will undoubtedly lay the blame of your negligence on myself in the form of nonsensical rants that will, considering the average rate of the doctor's speech, waste approximately fifteen minutes of my time and end with you undergoing extensive medical examinations to confirm you have caused no permanent damage to your epidermis.”

Jim sighed, straightening on the deck chair. “You're probably right.”

“There is a ninety nine point nine percent chance my hypothesis is correct,” Spock answered.

Jim snorted, reaching into the mess of towels, empty drink bottles, and sandwich wrappers below his chair. “What would I do without you, Spock?”

“Burn to a crisp and be subjected to your chief medical officer's subsequent emotional outburst.” Spock took a sip of water from the glass resting on the table beside him, watching a slight curl form across Jim’s brow as his hair dried under the sun.

“My hero. Here,” Jim tossed Spock a bottle retrieved from his belongings. “Get my back, would you?” Turning in his seat until his spine faced Spock, Jim leaned his hands against the chair, muscles flexing against skin already turning a light bronze.

Jim glanced over his shoulder, pushing his sunglasses down until his eyes appeared like rising blue giants in miniature. “Earth to Spock? I didn't keep you up all night with my snoring did I? You're really out of it, today.”

Spock stared back, his hand tightening around the bottle of sunblock, hand frozen in the position where he had caught it. Realizing how odd the posture must appear, Spock lowered his arm and leveled his shoulders. “I gained an optimal amount of rest.” With the tower of pillows between them, Spock could hardly tell Jim was sleeping on the other side of the bed, let alone detect any sounds resulting from sleep apnea.

“Did I strike a nerve?” Jim pointed at his back, beginning to turn around. “Will this mess with your telepathy? I promise to tame my thoughts.”

Spock eased the muscles he could feel tensing along his brow and flipping the bottle cap open with a flick of his thumb. “As I meditated fully last night, my mental shields are presently strong enough to withstand the thoughts of a psy-null being.” He squeezed a generous portion of the bottle's contents into his palm.

“Hurry up and slap it on then. I think I can feel a burn coming on.” He flexed his shoulder blades, which, from Spock's vantage appeared free of blemish other than a scattering of moles.

Giving himself no time to reconsider, Spock obeyed, slapping his hand forcefully against the captain's back. Jim yelped, laughing, and muttered. “I didn't mean literally!”

Spock spread a thick layer of sunblock along Jim's shoulders, turning his skin a creamy white. “If you did not insist on issuing commands you do not expect to be acted on, perhaps such unnecessary understandings would not arise.” The scent of coconut and human sweat combined to assail his senses.

“Uh huh,” Jim murmured, his head sinking down toward his chest. “You just wanted an excuse to slap me off duty when it wouldn't be considered mutiny.”

“I have no desire to harm you, Jim.” Slowing the movement of his fingers, Spock traced the curve of Jim's right shoulder blade down to his narrow waist, taking a moment to admire the feel of hardened muscle under his fingers, the warmth of the captain’s body heat and sun touched skin. Despite the amount of time they had spent in each other’s presence both professionally and socially, most of the touch between them had been initiated by Jim. However, it was rarely more than a grip against a uniformed shoulder, or the press of a clothed knee. Spock kept a firm mental grip on his shields, as he pressed his hand against Jim's lower back, holding it there a second longer than necessary. He was beginning to feel intoxicated on the sensation of Jim's skin, despite the strength of his mental fortifications and Jim's dubious promise to not emotionally project. Perhaps he imagined the sharp intake of breath in front of him and the way Jim moved, pressing himself against Spock's hand. A question filtered through a splinter in Spock’s shields.

With an answering exhale, Spock extracted his hand from the orbit of Jim’s body heat. “Your back is sufficiently covered to prevent damage from ultraviolet light.” Placing the bottle neatly atop of Jim's mess, Spock slid farther back in his chair, increasing the distance between himself and the captain to prevent his hands from participating in further displays of inappropriate fondling.

Jim paused for five point three seconds before sliding down the chair and flipping onto his stomach in a quick clumsy movement. Slipping his sunglasses up his nose until his eyes were completely eclipsed, Jim glanced in Spock's direction. “Thanks,” he murmured, resting his chin against his crossed arms.

“You are welcome, Jim,” Spock replied, his voice echoing in his ears.

Eight point nine minutes passed between them in silence, as Spock watched the Orions make obscene gestures at two Andorian males walking past. He distracted himself with the foreign mannerisms of such an extroverted sexual species, while attempting to ignore how the air seemed to nonsensically buzz with tension between him and the captain. As if Spock could reach out and feel the warm pressure of their discomfort. Illogical, of course. An abstract sense of mutual feeling between two individuals could not take solid form no matter how keenly they were expressed. Although he was no longer touching Jim, Spock knew the captain was experiencing some emotional tension. It seemed to flow from the tightness of the captain's muscles despite his slack position and appearance of rest, and from his stillness, such a rare state for his friend. Spock may have believed Jim had fallen asleep if it were not for the restless energy that emanated from him.

As he processed his illogical thoughts, Jim suddenly spoke, causing Spock's spine to straighten in barely disguised surprise. “Got a thing for Orion girls? Or Andorian men?”

Realizing the intensity of his previous focus on a scene that gave him little interest beyond abstracted curiosity, Spock turned his eyes away, instead staring at a point above Jim's head. “Negative on both accounts,” Spock huffed. “I was merely attempting to understand the purpose of such extravagant behavior.”

Jim snorted, turning onto his back. Although the captain's eyes were disguised, Spock could feel Jim's focus on his person. “I'm pretty sure that's their way of flirting.”

“It appears to be effective.” The Andorians had jumped into the water with a splash, swimming close to the Orions. On reflection, the flamboyant efforts of the Orions were not unlike those he had observed from the captain when he met a being he was physically attracted to. Smiles that said too much, intimate body language, lingering touches placed where a Vulcan would never dare except among bondmates and only ever in private.

“So, how do Vulcan's do it?” Jim asked, cushioning his head on a forearm. “Flirt?”

“They do not,” Spock replied.

“There's gotta be something,” Jim answered leaning his chin on a hand. If Spock ever felt such a whimsical emotion such as endearance, it would have been directed toward Jim presently as his chin tilted to the side, glasses slipping down his nose once again, feet kicking lightly against the lounge chair. A feeling he had witnessed coming to naught but trouble when Nyota returned from their last shore leave with a tribble, expressing how adorable the creature was due to its comforting and innocent form. Innocent was the least accurate description Spock would have used for the creature after learning of the damage it had caused to the Enterprise’s ventilation systems. Not to mention the effect the furry herbivores had on the captain’s incensed mentality. Although he was unrestricted with his positive emotions, it was rare to see the captain have such an openly hostile reaction, especially in front of his crew. He had kicked several tribbles in his path vehemently when security informed the captain of how much of the Quadrotriticale grain for Sherman’s Planet the animals had wastefully consumed.

“Negative,” Spock lifted his chin.

“Then what would you do?” Jim scrunched his nose in an attempt to lift his glasses. “To show someone you were attracted to them?”

Spock considered the question. “I would state my intentions using factual speech to prevent misunderstandings that could consequentially waste time better spent becoming more acquainted with the individual in question to determine the possibility of compatibility for a permanent relationship.” Of course, Spock thought, it depended on whether he wanted this attractive individual to know of his desires or not. Desires he should not be feeling, as a Vulcan, and in his professional position.

“Very logical.” Jim pressed his face against his arms. With the captain's gaze once again averted, Spock glanced at him, speculating at his sudden silence.

Unable to leave the matter be, Spock continued. “And you, Jim? When you find a being aesthetically pleasing, do you not convey your desire to engage the person romantically by use of methods of questionable meaning?”

Jim lifted his head, his eyebrows pulling together into a frown. “Depends on the person I suppose. I mean, remember the Xixan at that bar on Cradus? Bones said I was anything but subtle when he found me the morning after.”

Spock had no desire to remember that particular evening. Jim had spotting the Xixan male shortly after a disagreement with Spock about appropriate behavior patterns a Starfleet officer should follow even when off duty. Jim had all but thrown himself at the male who had been watching Jim since he entered, buying him several drinks that had not helped the ordeal come to, what Spock would evaluate as, a satisfactory conclusion.

“So, if your intention is to engage the individual in immediate coitus, then your speech is more direct.”

“One night stands, you mean,” Jim laughed sharply. “I don't know. Yeah, maybe. Less risk talking bluntly with some guy you want to fuck once to release a little tension and then be done with it.”

Spock lifted a brow at the description. “You have never been one to avoid risk during our acquaintance. Indeed, you have, on multiple occasions, stated that risk is your middle name, not as a statement of fact, but as a human illusion to your dedication to dangerous pursuits.”

“Yeah, when it comes to starship tactics. But telling someone you're into them, when you don't know if they'll be ok with it and stick with you. Especially once they really get to know you, which inevitably happens when you date someone—well, that's a completely different type of risk,” Jim responded with an emphatic flip of his arm.

Spock agreed that the two matters had an extreme difference in their priority levels. However, he considered the extreme, though undoubtedly successful, decisions the captain had occasionally made during their missions, considerably more daunting than expressing one's attraction to another individual. “Your priorities are contrary, Jim. The tactics you apply within your position as captain could cause significant physical harm to yourself or your subordinates. However, expressing one’s intention to mate with another is hardly a matter of life or death.”

“Yeah, but what if you really care about someone?” he countered. “When you start caring about someone, relationships become a matter of life. You can hurt them, they can hurt you. You know, emotionally more than physically. Maybe they stop caring or get sick of you and leave after they become an essential part of your life. Then you’re left still feeling everything for them, a well of emotions in your head that just keeps flowing, tearing you up.” Jim cleared his throat, swiping a knuckle roughly across his nose.

“I see,” Spock replied, still watching Jim's averted face. “You have obviously thought extensively on this matter.” He wondered if Jim had gone through this experience himself. Perhaps he had been in an emotional affiliation with another individual who had terminated their coupling. That would explain the captain’s adverse reaction to the idea of forming a permanent romantic relationship lest he be harmed emotionally again.

“Sometimes I think too much about it.” Jim titled his head slightly, revealing a soft tinge of red across his cheeks. The captain should have applied more sunscreen across such a vulnerable area. “Gotta say though, I admire how you can just blurt out your feelings for someone so logically.”

Spock frowned slightly, wondering at the numbing cold he was beginning to feel through his neural pathways. “Vulcans do not blurt out their feelings. In fact, if one did, it would be advisable that he or she seek the advice of a mind healer, immediately.”

“Sure, ok.” Jim leaned forward, eyebrows drifting above his sunglasses. “So, what kind of person do you go blurting these not actual feelings of sexual attraction to? What's your type?” With the closed distance, Spock observed the outline of Jim's irises behind the dark shades.

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “If your intention is to discover what attributes I find attractive in an individual on a consistent basis, my answer is: humanoids of a height above one hundred and seventy two point eighteen centimeters; physically fit; clean shaven; pronounced facial features; well-proportioned buttocks; long fingers; a complementary set of ideals; conviction in their decisions; a keenness of mind; and an intelligence in and curiosity for various subjects that would enhance shared conversations.”

“Wow,” Jim replied his mouth drawn into a straight line that, despite his serious expression, only pronounced the fullness of his lips. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking extensively on this topic as well. So,” Jim turned to his left and then to his right. “You see anyone like that around here?”

“It would be impossible to ascertain whether an individual fit these qualifications without conversing with them for an unforeseen amount of time. One's intelligence levels are rarely observed through sight or even brief discussion alone. A longer acquaintance would be required.”

Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck where a sheen of sweat was glimmering across his skin, Jim continued in an insistent voice, disguised under a high note of humor. “Yeah, but do you see anyone that meets your physical requirements, at least?”

Spock frowned. “You are attempting to arrange a sexual rendezvous for my person.”

Puffing out a breath of air with a smile, Jim lowered his head, shaking it momentarily. “Ok yes, I am trying to set you up. It's just that, ever since you broke up with Uhura, I don't know. You've seemed kind of sad.”

“Impossible,” Spock felt his frown deepening. “Vulcans do not express sadness.”

“You’re off then. Not your usual self.”

Spock stiffened. “I apologize if I have performed unsatisfactorily in my assigned duties as first officer.”

“No, no.” Jim looked up swiftly, raising his hands, glasses sliding down once again to reveal a softened expression, eyes excessively bright. If Spock were more poetic, he would compare their shade to the Risan Sea before them. “Your work has been amazing as always. I mean during our free time. We used to hang out a lot, but since whatever happened between you and Uhura, you've been kind of distant.”

Spock turned his gaze toward the ocean, unsure how to proceed. “I apologize if I have offended you with my lack of social availability. I have been focused on the influx of experiments being developed in the science labs. Three extensive science missions occurred between the dissolution of my romantic relationship with Lieutenant Uhura and the present date.”

Although Spock's glance was averted, he could feel the intensity of Jim's eyes on him as a flush moving up his neck to his cheeks. “It has been pretty hectic lately,” Jim replied, his voice gentle. “Sorry. I didn't mean to hound you or anything. I just want you to be happy. I thought maybe you were being less social because you were upset about the break-up.”

Jim's suspicions were slightly inaccurate. Although Spock had regretted Nyota's decision to end their romantic relationship, it had been her reasoning for their separation, namely Spock's focus on another individual that had been blatant enough to rouse the lieutenant's attention. This disturbed Spock, that his emotions were so visible, and caused him to question the advisability of placing himself too often in the captain's presence lest their closeness lead to professions of feelings that could disrupt their command suitability and the loss of their friendship.

“Negative,” Spock replied. “I am performing optimally both mentally and physically.”

“Ok, Spock. You'd know best,” Jim replied, a faint disturbance in his tone. “I’m just glad we’re spending time together again. It’s the reason I cajoled you to come with me.”

“I see,” Spock replied, a rising sense of guilt pressing against his stomach. He had not meant to hurt Jim’s feelings, only protect him from his own.

Jim fiddled with his sunglasses, hands framing his face. “So, why did you agree to come?”

“To prevent you from placing yourself in dangerous situations.”

Jim chucked lightly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I can list nine previous instances of your involvement in troublesome events during shore leave.”

His laugh increasing in volume, the tense lines of Jim’s features loosening as he shifted in his chair. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Spock. While you’re trying to keep me out of trouble, I’ll probably get us both in a dirty mess before the end of our vacation.”

“You underestimate my ability to avoid disquieting circumstances and regulate your behavior.”

“And you underestimate my ability to create havoc,” Jim grinned. “You never answered my question by the way.”

“Which one,” Spock queried.

“Whether there’s anyone on the beach who tickles your fancy.” Jim waggled his eyebrows.

“Is this your first attempt to get me in a ‘dirty mess.’”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Commander.” Jim’s eyes flashed over the rim of his glasses.

Turning away from Jim, Spock analyzed the individuals before him. “I am attracted to no beings in my current line of sight.”

Flopping back down on the lounge chair, Jim sighed. “Well, maybe we'll have more luck when I take you out dancing on the weekend. I'm sure there’ll be loads of smart and curious hot people at this club. Bones recommended it and he's a smart guy under all those bristles.”

Spock’s suspicions raised. This club did not sound like a reputable establishment. “Although Doctor McCoy has a keen medical mind, surprisingly effective considering his overly emotional and occasionally prejudiced nature that could lead to an inability to perform his duties efficiently, I am disinclined to believe an establishment recommended by the doctor, considering our disparate natures, would contain individuals I could possibly find attractive in the ways I described.”

“You know, I really wish you two could try to get along,” Jim sighed, raising his eyes. “I know Bones' language can be dramatic, but he's all bark and no bite. He's a really sweet guy if you get to know him. He gets worked up because he cares so much.”

Spock kept silent, forcing his features into neutrality. He did not desire to hear Jim's thoughts on his friend's attractive qualities.

“Well, if it's a bust, at least you'll have one cute guy to hang out with,” Jim laughed with a wink, tapping his bare chest. “We can even have a dance together if you like. If I drink enough, I’m not too bad on the dance floor.”

Watching Jim, Spock banked the heat burning within his cheeks. Despite his better judgement, his consciousness began imagining how Jim's hands would feel against his own as they embraced in a common Terran dance position. He found himself both dreading their visit to this club, no longer trusting his ability to keep his hands from Jim’s if his friend encouraged touch, but also welcoming the visit for the same reason.

“I would advise against consuming an excessive amount of alcohol lest you experience nausea the next morning and miss experiencing a day of shore leave that could be spent more pleasantly than with your head over the seat of a waste disposal receptacle.”

With a moan, Jim turned to lie back on his stomach, giving Spock an ample view of his gluteus maximus, highlighted by the tight pull of his close fitting swim shorts. “Doesn't sound so bad if you're here to take care of me.”

“As we are sharing quarters, it is unlikely that I would not be in close proximity during the moment of your post inebriation illness,” Spock replied. Spock could not lie. Attending the captain in med bay during instances of illness or injury—keeping him company, moping sweat from his brow, retrieving glasses of water—had always given Spock a strange sense of gratification.

“I'm a lucky guy,” Jim murmured, face once again pressed against his arms, left cheek turned toward the sun.

Perhaps, Spock silently acquiesced. Indeed, although he did not believe in luck, Spock often thought circumstance had placed him in a fortuitous situation, as well.

*


	2. Chapter 2

At first, all he felt was warm skin against his own, bristling hairs tickling the pads of his fingers. The impression pleased him, so Spock gripped tighter. 

The hand curled against his own and then—

There was emptiness inside him, burning through the hollow of his stomach. Aching limbs. Fear dissipating into a dull whine of desperation. He was hungrier than he had ever felt before. Instinct forced him to keep moving his shaking feet forward, step by step. Just one more day, one more mouthful. Keep going, keep going. 

A forested landscape. His hand was no longer wrapped around skin, but weighed by something heavy and rough. 

His arms burned. Everything was red. The pain in his stomach slightly eased, his mouth dry and gritty. A shadow fell on top of him. A sweet smell filled his nostrils, and with it his stomach yearned, demanding more. And then pain, his mind unable to locate the source, dirt in his mouth. And then—and then—

Starting awake, Spock grasped at his consciousness, pulling it back into his body. He recorded physical perceptions emanating along his nerve endings, directing them to his brain to remind himself of reality: the plump cushioning of the mattress beneath him; his head sunk into the pillow; city lights creeping in through cracks along the drapes covering the window. Jim’s voice echoing around the buzzing pressure in his ears, words indiscernible. Fingers pulled harshly from his crushing grip.

“Spock!” The single syllable pierced his skull, and Spock cringed against the throbbing in his head. He was once again himself.

“What the hell?” Jim whispered severely. 

Spock turned toward him in the dark. He noticed the wall of pillows had collapsed during their sleep. One of them had likely made emphatic movements while ensconced in their dreams. “Why are you whispering?” Spock asked. “Neither of us is asleep.”

Snapping on the bedside lamp, Jim’s agonized expression filled Spock’s vision, features warped into a desperation that suddenly frightened him. “Are you ill?” Spock queried.

“No,” Jim stated, the sound oddly punitive. Spock briefly wondered if he were still dreaming, the sudden shift in Jim’s tone and features suggesting at unreality. He blinked several times and regulated the movements of his cognizance. None of his vital signs suggested sleep.

The sensations and shadows from the dream he had experienced moments before flooded back to him along with the feeling of a familiar hand in his own. It was possible the dream had not been his, that the lowered mental capacities of his subconscious in sleep had allowed a telepathic transference when his hand had taken Jim’s as he rolled over in bed.

He conjectured why his body would do something so foolhardy, even within the ignorant oblivion of sleep.

“You had a nightmare,” Spock stated.

Stiffening against the headboard, Jim shifted away, gripping the pillow below him. “How do you know that?”

“Our hands made contact while our bodies moved involuntarily during sleep. My touch telepathy allowed me to experience the mental impressions your subconscious mind was exhibiting.”

“What?” Jim snapped, crawling out of bed clumsily. “What did you see?” he demanded, his voice rising.

Spock shook his head. “Very little. I received an image of a forest and the color red, but no other visuals. Most of what I experienced were extreme emotions and scattered tactile sensations.”

“What tactile sensations?” Jim asked more heatedly.

“I am uncertain. I have no previous reference to use to accurately describe them.” Spock pulled the covers away from his body and stood so he could face Jim. He wished to relieve Jim’s peculiar distress, but could not without an understanding of what was causing it. Although Jim had had an adverse reaction to their touch on Ceti Alpha III, his hand slipping away hastily, Jim had not verbalized any anger at the inadvertent contact. Indeed, he never mentioned it again. 

“Jim,” Spock spoke softly, “I apologize for the accidental intrusion. My mental shields have not been as functional as of late. But I assure you, I understood little of what you experienced. Your privacy is assured.”

Jim grabbed a pillow from the bed. “I should have slept on the floor from the beginning,” he mumbled.

“Jim?” Spock followed, as Jim folded to the floor in a distant corner of the room. “You are troubled. Do you wish to speak about it?”

“No,” Jim replied, forcefully, staring up at Spock. His pupils were dilated, the shadowing under his eyes highlighted from the distilled light of the lamp. “I don’t want to talk about it. That’s the point.”

“Jim,” Spock insisted. “Perhaps—”

Rubbing a hand roughly across his face, Jim rested his back against the wall, his lips forced upward into a distorted grin. “Forget it, Spock. I just have bizarre nightmares sometimes. I’m sorry you picked up on it. That’s why I didn’t want us to share a bed when we arrived.”

“There is no need to apologize, I—”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Spock. I mean it. Just forget about it.” Closing his eyes, Jim pressed a thumb against the bridge of his nose.

Spock exhaled. “Very well.” He watched as Jim stretched out on the floor, and then went to retrieve an extra blanket from the closet. As Spock fluffed it over Jim’s body, he smiled up at him, the slow up draw of lips wearied but authentic.

“Thanks, Spock,” he sighed. “Sorry I yelled at you. I just,” he paused. “I really didn’t want you to see anything creepy in my dreams that would freak you out. Vulcan’s don’t have nightmares, right?”

Spock considered his response. Although full blooded Vulcans claimed not to dream, this fact had never related to Spock’s subconscious. Although he could control the parameters his unconscious landscape chose to conjure in many aspects, just as he regulated his emotional output during wakefulness, Spock often dreamed. Figures and sensations formed in his mind, inspired by the day’s events, half-forgotten feelings from his past, or suppressed desires. An ephemeral replication of Jim had become a frequent character in Spock’s dreams recently. However, Spock rarely allowed himself to regulate his subconscious when it chose to envisage the captain’s figure.

“I do not know about other Vulcans,” Spock said. “I, however, do dream. Occasionally, the images my subconscious decides to formulate are unpleasant.” 

“Oh,” Jim said, his voice lifted in surprise. “Is that because of your human genes, then?”

“Perhaps.” Spock paused as both of them watched each other for a moment. “Sleeping on the floor will create tension in your back. We can reconstruct the wall of pillows more thickly to prevent further telepathic contact.”

Jim played with the edge of his blanket, rubbing a thumb against the edge of the fleece. “I don’t want to risk it again tonight. My nightmares usually come in twos or threes.” He leaned a fist against his head. “I’ll get back in the bed tomorrow night and we can fix the breech in out pillow wall.”

Spock rested his hands behind his back. “If you are sure.”

“Yeah,” Jim whispered. “Hey, I’m sorry I was sharp with you just now. What happened—it’s not your fault.”

Spock nodded, glancing down at Jim an instant longer, his body stuck within the pull of Jim’s presence. “Good night,” he finally uttered. “I hope your sleep will be undisturbed.” He wished to say more, to ask what Jim was so worried Spock would see in his nightmare, about the harrowing feelings—Jim’s emotions—he had felt, and why his subconscious was inflicting such trauma. He wished to offer his services, to press a hand against Jim’s temple and lull his consciousness into a deep dreamless sleep, filling his head with the thrum of the Enterprise’s engines, or the image of speckled starlight against a black canvas. However, after Jim’s reaction to his telepathy, Spock speculated whether such an offer would be welcomed or admonished.

"’Night, Spock.” Jim pulled the blanket closer around him and closed his eyes.

When Spock got back into bed, he shivered—the absence of Jim’s body heat, a comforting presence over the past three nights, sending a chill through his body. He pulled several pillows closer against his side.

*

Spock gripped Jim’s arm below his shoulder, careful to avoid skin. He would not inflict his increasingly unstable telepathy upon Jim if the captain desired to keep his tumble of conflicting thoughts to himself. It would only disturb the human further. And, as Spock’s purpose in joining Jim on vacation had been to prevent distress, further physical contact would prove counterproductive. It would also not assist in alleviating Spock’s failing mental shields. He was now confident the distance he had established between himself and Jim socially after the night on Ceti Alpha III had been a wise one. Once they returned to the Enterprise, Spock would resume his seclusion. 

Gently pulled Jim away from the stand of spiced groyah being served on a hot grill, Spock released his grip once the captain was safely from reaching distance of the edibles. “Jim, groyah contains rosemary, a herb that Doctor McCoy informed me you have had an adverse reaction to on three separate occasions. Therefore, you should not consume it.”

Jim sighed and continued to the next stall, which was selling some sort of grilled seafood. He peered closer at the contents, watching the cook flip the food dramatically with a flat piece of wood that resembled a spatula. He pulled out his wallet with an obvious intention to purchase. 

Spock intercepted Jim’s acquisition and questioned the cook about the ingredients used in preparing the dish. Afrin stems were included in the recipe. Since Jim’s body had produced hives in response to the consumption of other plants in the hemer species which Afrin belonged to, Spock persuaded Jim to attempt another food vendor. If he hoped to spend more time shirtless on the beach, breaking out in an uncomfortable array of skin rashes would upset his sun bathing.

“Ok fine,” Jim mumbled, “third time’s the charm.” He stepped to the following stall where a Risan man was roasting chestnuts over charcoal. 

“Jim, you must be aware of your nut allergy. Striking your chest with epinephrine is not on my list of favorable shore leave activities. Considering your objection to hyposprays, I am confident it is not on yours either.”

Turning toward Spock, Jim crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you trying to starve me?”

“Negative. I am only attempting to prevent you from inflicting harm upon your gastrointestinal tract.” Spock pulled out his PADD. “The website for the Eleric Market listed several food stands that sell edibles fit for your consumption.” He glanced at the market list. “There is a vendor selling shish kabobs at the end of this row. They contain none of your known allergens.”

Jim narrowed his gaze. “You sure know a lot about me for a guy who’s been avoiding me like the plague for the past month.”

Walking in the direction of the kabob stall, Spock replied, “I am a scientist, Captain. It is an observant profession.”

“So you’ve been watching me on the down low?”

“Affirmative.”

“Why?” Jim asked, an incredulous tone in his lowered voice.

Spock paused as he glanced behind a line of people to discern whether this was the stall he was searching for. “It is my duty as first officer to observe your needs,” he answered, “and assist you, when required, to fulfil them.”

“Sometimes it seems like you’re answering my question but avoiding the point all together.” Jim stepped into line to purchase his lunch.

Indeed, Spock could say the same about Jim. “I do not garner your meaning, Captain,” he answered, incredulously.

Jim glanced up at him. “Why are you calling me captain again, all of a sudden? It’s not because of what happened last night? Because I really am sorry about that.”

It was precisely for that reasoning that Spock was resuming his formal address in order to re-establish the distance between them for the sake of reconstructing his mental restraints. However, perhaps it had been unwise to raise suspicions of his actions by reintroducing a convention he had erroneously agreed to dismiss at the beginning of their shore leave. 

“It was merely an oversight, Jim,” Spock corrected.

“That’s better,” Jim smiled. “I don’t want you getting all distant with me again, ok? The point of this vacation was to bond, right? Finally clear that weird air forming between us for the past little while.”

Spock disagreed with Jim’s description of his motivations. He was assured a bond was the last thing Jim desired to establish with Spock if he possessed such an abhorrence to an exchange of thoughts between them.

When they approached the front of the line, Spock purchased three kabobs before Jim could pull out his wallet. He handed two to Jim, keeping one for himself. Grinning, the captain proceeded to fill his stomach, an act that always caused a smile to spread across his face, small sounds of satisfaction issuing through his grinding teeth. 

“This is good,” Jim mumbled around a full mouth. “You really do know what I like.”

Fully knowing Jim was a state Spock suspected would never come to pass. Grief surged against his fading mental shields at the thought.

*

“There,” Jim gasped, layering another pillow on top of their towering wall. “Now you can sleep in peace."

“I never questioned the passivity of my unconscious mind, Jim. Is this really necessary?” Spock asked from the other side of the white mass.

“Trust me, it’s for your own protection,” Jim’s voice said, muffled beyond the influx of stuffing.

Spock privately questioned whether Jim was actually attempting to protect Spock from the innocently random processes of his subconscious, or himself from the floundering telepathy of his temporary bedmate.

*

Jim had proposed they consume their evening mean at a restaurant across the street from their hotel. The establishment was full, which caused an estimated delay of forty-five minutes before their seating. After leaving his name and communicator number with the hostess, Jim tapped Spock on the shoulder.

“Let's go for a walk while we wait.” He gestured down the street where Spock detected the scent of salt on the southerly breeze. “Moonlight walks on the beach are top rated on Risa’s tourist information page.”

Spock nodded. “I am not adverse to your suggestion.”

Smiling, Jim turned and led the way, street noise and light dissipating as they walked silently side by side, replaced by moonlight and the sound of rushing waves.

Spock watched the wind lift a wayward lock of hair up over Jim's forehead, to the right, and back down again where in settled askew. As if a force separate from his own logic controlled him, Spock's hand moved to Jim's face, index and middle fingers stretching outward to brush the lock from Jim's vision, making sure their skin did not touch in the process.

Jim's lips separated a fraction of an inch before pressing into a half smile. “Thanks,” he said, brushing a hand against his forehead where Spock's hand lingered only a moment before. “Guess I need a haircut.”

“Unnecessary. The length is still within regulations.”

“Hmm?” Jim hummed, crossing his arms loosely against his chest and tipping his waist forward. “Got a thing for shaggy locks?”

Spock admired the varying shades of Jim's hair as strands ruffled in the wind, highlighted by the moonlight overhead. “I have no preference for the physical state of security devices as long as they are functional.”

Jim laughed softly, the sound drowned by the roaring waves as they approached the seaside. 

Jim's body heat pressed against his own, his breath echoing in Spock's ear, sending a surge of electrical reactions down his spine. “You know what else this beach is top rated for?” Jim whispered.

Spock focused on the trailing reflection of the moon along the water, the only light source in the area. He reminded himself of the ground under his feet, attempting to underwhelm his body's reactions to the captain's physical proximity, heightened by the solitude of their surroundings. “As Risa is known for inhibited activities, something nefarious, I suspect,” Spock answered.

“Bingo,” Jim breathed, stepping away. Spock’s eyes picked up the movement of Jim's hands in the darkness.

“I also suspect, as an often declared man of action, that you wish to demonstrate this infamous act, rather than provide a simple vocal explanation.”

Jim's reply was muffled. “Uh huh.” Something dropped to the ground at his feet.

“Captain. Although my vision is currently obscured due to the lack of artificial light, I believe you are disrobing.”

“Yup.” A piece of cloth hit Spock in the chest. He grabbed the item before it fell and felt thin cotton between his thumb and index fingers. The captain’s undershirt—the remaining heat from his skin rising from the fabric and through Spock’s thumbs.

“Jim.” Spock swallowed, his throat feeling tight, as if hands were placed around his throat. “Why are you undressing?” Unconsciously, Spock drew the fabric of Jim's shirt through his fingers, glancing away from the shadowed form of his captain, and back to the moon.

“Because,” there was a soft grunt as Spock heard the click of a belt being undone and the shuffle of fabric moving across skin. “I'm going swimming and don't want to get my clothes wet before our fancy dinner.”

Spock doubted the establishment referenced would be providing a meal that could be correctly labeled as ‘fancy.’ About fifty percent of the menu contained fried foods and a long list of alcoholic beverages. “I recommend delaying your swim until daylight hours,” Spock insisted. “Catching a chill would impair your ability to derive enjoyment from your shore leave.”

Jim laughed. “It's forty degrees out, so that's pretty unlikely.”

“There may be creatures within the water, unseen is such poor lighting, that may cause harm upon your person,” Spock added, beginning to feel, quite logically, desperate.

“It must be safe.” A hand tapped Spock's sleeve. “Or else this place wouldn't be known for skinny dipping.” Spock kept his eyes focused on the waves washing against the shore, highlighted by the moon's light. “Come with me,” Jim said.

“I do not have the required swimwear.”

“You don't need swimwear. We're the only ones here. Someone needs to protect me from these sea monsters you're so worried about.”

“Is this activity necessary at this time?” Spock asked quickly.

“I'm going in, Spock. The question is whether you're joining me or not.” Jim took off towards the water at a run, letting out a whoop of noise as he jumped through the waves, the moonlight now fully illuminating his figure as he stepped into its path.

Spock did not find the idea of swimming with Jim, unclothed, wholly unappealing. Indeed, he was having trouble keeping his eyes from Jim as he stepped into the light. Perhaps the concealment of water would be more preferable. It would not be logical to let his captain traverse unknown waters, in the dark, alone. After all, he was here to protect the captain from troubling circumstances.

“Come on, Spock! The water's actually warm,” Jim called from where he paddled, water up to his chin, arm sailing in an arc above his head. His fingertips glinted silver.

Gathering his resolve like a buffer across his mind, Spock lifted his uniform shirt over his head. Jim yelled a wordless cheer in the distance.

Feeling unnecessarily self-conscious, Spock stepped back, out of the moonlight's range, before pulling off his undershirt and then, without letting himself think too long, his pants. Jim booed as Spock moved from the revealing light and into the shadows.

After divesting himself of clothing, Spock folded each piece, placing them beside Jim's haphazard pile, and moved towards the water. He shivered inwardly as he gingerly placed his toe in the liquid. It was warmer than the shores of the Pacific Ocean on Earth, yet two point three degrees cooler than the air now blowing a warm breeze against his bare skin.

“Just jump in, Spock. You'll get used to it.” Jim's head disappeared under the water and popped up five seconds later as his arms pushed him through the waves, further and deeper along the moon's path. 

Spock watched observantly, his eyes trained on each movement of the captain's arms. “It is unwise to venture farther out without the accompaniment of lifesaving flotation equipment,” he called, his voice raised. 

Jim paused, paddling in place. “Come out and save me, then!” He dove back beneath the water. 

Sucking in a breath of air, Spock took a step across the waves, and then another. If he did not overcome his discomfort and catch up to Jim, it would only be a matter of time before the captain found himself in a perilous situation. He might become caught in an undercurrent, grabbed by a Risan sea creature—the opportunities for harm were endless when Jim was added to the calculation of impossibilities. Closing his eyes as he stepped into deeper waters, Spock pushed himself out, submerging his head beneath a rushing wave. It had been two point one years since Spock had swam in an ocean, not since his academy days. During the hot summer months, Spock had indulged his often suppressed human proclivities in the seemingly endless waters provided by the coast of San Francisco. Enveloped within the waves, the tang of salt on his tongue, floating weightless as if gravity had been removed from his physical equation, Spock had experienced an illogical mix of comfort and exhilaration. A life in the void of space provided little opportunity for swimming, and Spock found himself relishing in the feel of water moving past his skin as his body temperature acclimatized to the chill. Catching the sight of human feet paddling two meters from where he drifted, Spock pushed himself up for air. 

“Hey, Spock,” Jim smiled. 

“Hello, Jim,” Spock replied, paddling in place one point four meters from where Jim floated, fingers glowing white as they caressed the reflective water in swaying semicircles. Inexplicably drawn to the sight, Spock kicked himself forward another point five meters. From this distance, Spock could see the captain was well and showed no signs of fatigue other than the soft pink that highlighted his cheekbones. With a grin, Jim submerged, his head popping out of the water with a splash that made Spock blink, a few inches away. Spock shivered as Jim's exhale tickled his chin.

“Cold?” Jim breathed, his tongue darting out to lick away the water that beaded in droplets on his lips. Spock found himself wondering if Jim would taste salty, considering the chemical compound of Risan oceans were similar to Earth's. Spock swallowed, his mouth dry.

“Although the water temperature is approximately five degrees lower than my body is used to, I am experiencing no signs of hypothermia.” Indeed, Spock was feeling unnaturally warm as his eyes locked on Jim's, his friend's gaze bright and inescapable.

Jim chuckled, his laughter warming Spock's cheeks. “Approximately? That's kind of vague.” Spock suppressed another shiver as human toes brushed against his ankle, skin softened by the salt water.

“I find I am unable to calculate an exact degree at this moment. Perhaps the temperature is having an effect on my higher brain functions.” Spock’s eyes were drawn to Jim’s fingers again, the skin along his nails puckering from an excessive amount of moisture. As if all logic had abandoned him, the restraints he had forced around his emotional processes since Jim’s nightmare loosened and Spock found himself reaching out. Desire to envelope Jim’s hand in his own, tangle their fingers together, lock them in place, overwhelmed him. His fingertips grazed Jim’s. The sound of his own breath deafened him. 

Spock’s lips parted as he watched the movement of his skin tracing the edge of Jim’s fingertips, along his knuckles, over the crossing line of veins at the top of his hand, and back again, slipping warm wet fingers into the welcoming spaces between Jim’s.

“Spock?” Jim asked quietly, his voice low, expression considerably subdued. Uncertainty sparked from Jim's skin through Spock's neural pathways, matching the hesitation in Jim’s grip as he responded gently to Spock’s touch.

Inhaling, Spock curled his fingers against Jim's, securing their hands together. Warmth spread up his arm. He could feel a blush spreading across his cheeks, the controls he had placed on his body temperature floundering as he watched Jim's eyes widen with a corresponding feeling of want and need and if only that rushed against Spock's skin through their contact. “Yes,” Spock said, the sound of his voice barely discernable.

Spock felt himself resolving to test his theory about the salt content of human skin in open waters when the combined flood of desire was broken by a repetitive beep echoing from the beach.

“Oh,” Jim muttered, breaking their contact abruptly and turning his head toward the expanse of sand. “Our table must be ready.” He looked back at Spock with a small smile before diving back underwater and swimming to shore. For a moment, Spock watched the movement of arched arms and legs kicking through the waves before following, unable to contain a sense of disappointment at an opportunity lost.

*

Even after the distracting dinner, which Spock spent mostly in silence while Jim chatted like nothing had happened, Spock's fingers still buzzed as if he had touched an exposed wire on a damaged bridge console. Spooning food robotically into his mouth, tasting nothing, Spock had watched the movement of Jim's lips and the spread of his fingers along knife and fork. 

Now the two walked side by side, as the cool breeze failed to remove the heat from Spock’s exposed right hand, even though the rest of his body suppressed a shiver. Jim kept a distance of several feet that Spock dared to remedy by one single foot as he used the excuse of avoiding a large crack in the pavement, a possible hazard, to step closer to Jim's side. Although Jim had only imbibed in a glass of wine at dinner, he was already in high spirits, cheeks flushed, breeze drying his damp hair, eyes bright with anticipation of the busy night ahead. Spock found himself staring at Jim, a mistake he was repeatedly making with the increased time spent in his company, despite the continued reprimands Spock would give himself over his emotional carelessness. Without the mask of duty and professionalism to protect him, intoxicated by the touch Jim had willingly shared with him a few hours ago, Spock was having difficulty diverting his ocular functions onto another specimen. 

There were three things Spock could admit without hesitation that he found truly, illogically, beautiful: the Raf-Kuv Nebula, discovered during his first deep space mission; Tar’hana Mountain on his lost home world; his mother’s eyes; and James Kirk.

The memory of Jim’s hands and the moonlight in his eyes occupied the sensory outputs from Spock’s prefrontal lobe.

“You cold?” Jim's voice penetrated Spock's haze of admiration and beginning stirrings of arousal.

Spock blinked. “I am adequate.”

“Bullshit.” Unfolding the light jacket he had draped across his arms, Jim stepped forward, decreasing their distance to a mere few centimeters, and draped the piece of clothing across Spock's shoulders. “Better?” he asked with warm, questioning eyes.

Spock nodded, his voice caught somewhere at the back of his throat. 

Squeezing Spock's shoulder, Jim stepped away to Spock's disappointment. “You sure? Because I can give you this as well.” He lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing a tantalizing amount of muscled stomach and the crease of one slim hip peeking above his low fitted jeans. “I'm feeling pretty warm, actually.” 

Suddenly, Spock was as well. “The added layer is not required at this time,” Spock replied as he watched Jim's exposed skin disappear with the release of the hem. 

“Ok then—you just let me know if you need me to remove my shirt,” Jim said with a grin that pulled further to the right, denoting a note of confidence that Spock had witnessed used during the captain’s often successful attempts at seductions. Spock could feel a flush rising up his neck. Perhaps Spock had been incorrect when he assumed his attentions would be unwelcomed by Jim. He was unsure how to proceed.

“I can't wait to check this place out,” Jim declared loudly as he continued walking, arms swinging wildly. “The way Bones was going on about it—should be a night filled with dancing and debauchery, I promise you that.” 

The heat burning through Spock's veins cooled. Spock was not adverse to the former, but resolved to prevent the later from occurring with any of Jim's dance partners. He would be vigilant, staying close to the captain's person lest any overly stimulated individuals attempt to take advantage of Jim's, Spock suspected, soon to be inebriated state. The thought of Jim's lips making contact with a stranger's during a drunken rendezvous, before Spock could comprehend the truth behind Jim’s response during their swim, filled Spock with cold dread. He shivered again.

“Need my shirt now?” Jim repeated, strangely observant of Spock's subtle signs of chill.

“Negative,” Spock replied, with a hint of regret.

 

The club was loud, packed, and smelled of more shades of perfume, cologne, and humanoid sweat than even Spock's keen senses could distinguish. Tapping Spock briefly on his lower back, Jim gestured with a nod of his head to the bar at the back of the room, illuminated from above by blazing lights in alternating shades of blue and pink that made Spock squint, despite the presence of his second eyelids. As Jim moved through the crowd with ease, Spock followed behind, attempting to avoid contact with the sparsely dressed individuals around him. Their arms and legs and various other appendages moved exuberantly to the upbeat tempo blaring through the speakers three decibels louder than recommended for the auditory health of most humanoid ears. Spock pressed close to Jim, determined to prevent others from stealing his friend away for a drink, a dance, or a myriad of other more erotic activities.

Jim laughed over his shoulder. “You’re breathing down my neck, Spock. It tickles.” He brushed a hand over the top of his spine which glowed a light shade of pink. Spock was unsure if it was a natural coloring or an effect of the lighting.

Spock shifted through his thoughts for an excuse that was not a lie. “I was merely admiring the scent of your cologne,” he replied, surprising himself. Although it was true that Jim smelled remarkably pleasant, it had not been his intention to reveal such a fact, especially not with the warmth his voice conveyed. The press of emotionally stimulated bodies and the sensory agitation around him was already having an undesirable effect.

Apparently Jim was similarly shocked by the declaration since his body turned the whole way round to face Spock’s just as a compromised Risan shook her body in an excessive dance move that sent her shoulder roughly into the curve of Jim's back, causing him to lose his balance and fall against Spock. His reflexes still functional, Spock raised his arms, catching Jim in a sudden embrace. 

Blinking up at him, Jim's mouth ascended from rounded pursed lips that expressed surprise, into a crooked grin within a timeframe of three to five seconds. Spock swallowed.

“Want to take a closer whiff?” Jim winked, his tone filled with amusement as he tilted his neck to the right, exposing the length of his throat, tanned from their previous four days in the sun. Tendons and collar bone pressing against skin. The heady scent of Jim's skin mixed with the musk of his cologne assailed Spock's nostrils.

“Considering the ample amount of fragrance you applied upon your skin before our departure, my sense of smell, and our currently close proximity, my olfactory nerves are able to distinguish your scent satisfactorily.” Spock admonished his fingers for remaining clutched against Jim’s back instead of helping the man to steady himself. He had already shared more physical contact with the captain in one night than he had experienced in the past month. His shields were splintering piece by piece with each grasping sensation.

Jim raised his eyebrows, returning his neck to its normal position. “Wanna dance, then?”

“I am not adept at dancing,” Spock replied. Dancing would also require the placement of his hands on intimate areas of Jim’s body, a frighteningly pleasant thought, but an ordeal Spock knew he could not rationally bear without several hours of meditation to prepare himself.

“I don’t believe that.” Jim's lips lifted three more millimeters revealing the white glint of his canines. Spock’s fingers tightened around the cloth of Jim’s shirt.

Laughing once and blinked several times as if suddenly gaining a sense of his debilitated placement in Spock’s arms, Jim straightened, gently extracting himself from Spock’s hold. “You have great reflexes. If you can stop me from smashing my face on the floor like you just did, bet you’d be pretty smooth on the dance floor.” 

Spock’s hands dropping loosely against his sides, fingers tense after the fierce clutch they had been maintaining. “It would be unwise to gamble too large a sum on my dance abilities.”

Lips stretching into a full grin, Jim shrugged. “Maybe after a few drinks, then.”

“The consumption of alcohol is only likely to compromise your balance with an eighty two percent possibility of your feet losing their grip upon the floor after, considering your weight and height, approximately four standard glasses of alcohol. Dancing in such a state would not be advised. ”

“Hey, my tolerance is way better than that,” Jim complained, thrusting his index finger against Spock's chest. Spock merely raised a brow in response. Past occurrences of Jim’s intoxication proved the captain's statement false. Brushing the subject away with a wave of his hand, Jim shrugged. “Never mind my balance—you’re here to catch me if I fall. That’s why you came on shore leave, right? To keep me out of trouble. ”

“Correct.”

“So, if I drink enough, you’ll have to keep me from getting trampled on the dance floor.” Jim nodded at the rowdy stage to the left. Spock glanced over his shoulder. Indeed, if Spock allowed Jim to enter the thrashing crowd unattended and tipsy, the possibility of injury was significant.

“If the situation requires it,” Spock agreed, hesitantly.

Jim pushed a hand through his hair, causing several freshly dried locks to stand on end. The affect was most appealing. His eyes shifted, brightening suddenly. “Don't want to miss out on these moves, do you?” Jim slapped two hands on his hips, swaying them slightly from side to side. 

Spock watched the unsubtle display with a rising amusement itching at the back of his throat. “Indeed. It is highly probable I would regret missing an opportunity to witness, in close proximity, the thrusting of your lower body in ungainly movements.”

“Oh, my Gods, Spock,” Jim breathed, his lips once again returning to a round shape. He laughed loudly. “You really have a way with words.”

Spock blinked back at him.

“Ok, I need a drink. Now,” Jim professed loudly. Slapping Spock's upper arm genially, Jim resumed his procession toward the bar. 

Flinging his body dangerously at the bar counter, so forcefully that Spock feared the captain would impair his stomach cavity, Jim raised a hand to get the bartender's attention. 

“Need a drink, hun?” The Risan bartender asked, reaching above her to grab an empty glass from the shelf. 

“You bet I do. Romulan ale, if you've got it.”

The female whistled. “It's your funeral kid.” Kneeling, she pulled a large bottle of blue liquid from a cabinet and began filling the glass. Spock braced himself for a long arduous night. Jim had consumed the potent Romulan alcohol before. Doctor McCoy kept an illegal stash in a locked office cupboard that everyone knew about but no one, despite Spock's protestations, found dubious. The substance always led to a swiftly inebriated state that enhanced the captain's expressive tendencies. After a glass or two, Jim’s hands would grab at McCoy or Spock’s appendages more frequently than usual, his voice swelling in volume, his laughter amplifying, his speech patterns increasing in lucidity. 

“How about your companion?” the bartender asked, smiling at Spock.

“Vulcans do not imbibe alcoholic beverages.” He stepped closer to Jim. A male humanoid with moderately attractive features was starring obviously at Jim's posterior, jutting away from his hips pleasingly as he rested his upper body against the countertop. 

The bartender slid Jim's brimming glass of ale across the bar into his waiting hands. “This is a Risan bar, hun, we've got something for everyone.” She grinned at Spock as she started grabbing various ingredients from the shelves around her, lining them up on the counter beside an empty glass. “I know just the right cocktail for you. Every single Vulcan that's stepped up to this bar has loved it. Can't get enough.”

“It is highly unlikely that a Vulcan would profess adoration for a liquid.” Spock eyed the ingredients, unable to withhold his curiosity. The bartender's comment was certainly hyperbolic, however, if visiting Vulcans did indeed order multiple quantities of this beverage, then there was a ninety two percent chance that his palate would find the drink palpable. 

“Hey, sounds good,” Jim spoke animatedly after swallowing a quarter of his glass's contents in one gulp. “Give it a try.” He gripped Spock’s shoulder, eyes expanding dramatically in a probable attempt to garner Spock’s pity. “Don't make me drink alone.” 

Spock watched Jim's eager face. It was indeed rare for Jim to consume alcoholic beverages without a companion. If another joined him, such as Doctor McCoy or Mr. Scott, Jim was often distracted by the friendly presence, the camaraderie and nonsensical banter keeping him from wandering into the arms of an immoral stranger or a hazardous back alley. 

“Very well,” Spock replied. “I will sample the beverage.” If other Vulcans had ordered this drink, Spock assured himself, it was unlikely it would be an illogical or superfluous consumption. 

As the bartender began mixing ingredients with a suspiciously ample grin, Jim let out a loud exclamation of joy that proceeded to justify Spock’s decision to join the captain in filling his stomach with liquid substances in a companionable manner.

Upon completion of the beverage, the bartender slid the drink across the countertop. “Enjoy, boys! Let me know when you need another.” She walked off to the other side of the bar to assist another customer who was demanding more beers than Spock thought could be safely consumed in one night.

Spock eyed the drink before him, which was a dark brown color with milky hues. He took a cautious sip from the provided straw as Jim watched him, downing another portion of his ale.

“How is it?”

Spock took a longer sip. “There is an excessive amount of sugar and a smaller portion containing cow’s milk.”

“She dumped like half a tub of chocolate sauce in there. Hope you like chocolate.”

“I have never before consumed the substance though I find the taste agreeable.” Spock continued to sample his drink. 

“Glad to hear it,” Jim smiled over the rim of his glass. “Thanks for drinking with me, even though drinking isn’t your thing. I mean, other than water or tea.”

“It is not an act I participate in outside the necessary function of bodily hydration,” Spock agreed while he savored the sweetness on his tongue. “However, partaking in an activity that will provide pleasure to one’s companion and further strengthen the bonds of friendship, is logical.”

“You're a real pal, Spock,” Jim grinned, leaning his head back to swallow the remains of his drink. He waved the bartender down for a refill.

As they consumed their drinks, conversation flowed between them fluidly, Spock’s tongue wrapping around words, his vocal cords expelling them at an increasing rate. His body felt warm and comfortable. He leaned on the barstool he was perched upon, his right ear turning toward Jim so he could better discern his speech over the thumping volume of the heavy base currently emanating from the club’s speakers. Spock’s shoulder pressed against Jim’s. When Jim continued to speak, his phrasing unbroken at the contact, Spock allowed his shoulder to remain where it rested. 

Jim was laughing again, deriving pleasure from something Spock said. Something Spock was having trouble remembering as the timbre of Jim’s pleasure stimulated a release of dopamine in his nucleus accumbens.

“Ok, fine!” Jim raised his hands in defeat. “I've obviously talked myself into a hole.” He returned his attention to his glass.

“Jim, you are sitting on a stool placed on the floor of a building that is above sea level. You have not talked yourself into a hole and it would be impossible to do so as human voices, however loudly or frequently one speaks, cannot move earth.”

Snorting noisily, Jim coughed and wiped at his nose as several drops of his recently swallowed drink were pushed through his naval cavity. “You're messing with me right now. Two years trapped on a starship together—don't tell me you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Even if I do know the relative implication of your various puns and idioms, I have not tired of emphasizing their illogic.” Spock replied, the edge of his lips flicking upwards.

“No shit, smarty pants,” Jim huffed, his play at annoyance ill-disguised by a widening grin.

“Jim. Articles of clothing—” his speech was halted by fingers pressed against his lips.

“Articles of clothing don't have brains, right?” Jim smiled, his fingers moving back to his glass.

Spock nodded a silent reply. His tongue slipped between his lips briefly, caressing the imprint of Jim’s fingers.

“You ready to dance, yet?” Jim asked, shifting against the bar as he finished his third drink.

Spock considered his glass, which had emptied more swiftly than his normally accurate sense of time could deduce. “Perhaps after the consumption of an additional drink,” he murmured. 

Jim grinned and called out for the bartender.

 

After another two and a half glasses of Romulan ale, and a bottle of Risan beer to “mix things up a bit,” Jim wandered into Spock's personal space, his body moving in an exaggerated fashion. 

“Come on,” he bumped a hip against Spock's. “Let's dance.”

Despite his perpetual chill on non-desert planets, Spock was feeling quiet hot. He had already removed Jim's jacket, the sweater underneath, his long sleeved shirt, and was considered removing his final layer—a black undershirt. As Jim rested a warm hand on his shoulder, the sensuous hum of excitement beating through their skin, Spock could not deny the advantage of baring more flesh, his earlier restraints forgotten. In fact, he could no longer fathom the logic in abstaining from a presence that caused his body to experience such pleasurable sensations.

“Please, Spock?” Jim pursed his lips. 

Draining the contents of his latest glass of liquid sucrose, Spock stood, taking Jim's hand. “As you wish,” he replied, running his thumb along the groove between Jim's index and middle knuckles. 

Letting out a single whoop, Jim rushed toward the dance floor, pushing through entwined couples and groups of dancers, dragging Spock along with him.

Finding a spot that allowed them both a modicum of movement without clashing with other’s elbows, Jim turned, pressing his back and lower body against Spock's. “Put your hands here,” Jim demanded, reaching back to grab Spock's hands and lay them upon his hips.

Spock stilled, reveling in the increased amount of contact and the voracious stream of inebriated thoughts filtering through Jim's hands where they pressed against Spock's. Using the modicum of control remaining in his mind, likely clouded by an ingredient in the drinks he had consumed, Spock prevented his arousal from revealing itself as Jim's buttocks pressed against his groin. He rubbed his fingertips along the jutting bones of Jim's hips, which did not assist his fumbling attempts at shielding. 

“Keep doing that. It feels nice,” Jim murmured, mirroring Spock's movements as he dragged his fingers roughly up the back of Spock's hands, fingernails scraping across skin. “Now, take my lead.” Jim began moving his hips from side to side in a circular motion, surprisingly fluid despite the amount of alcohol he had consumed, his lower body aligned sensuously with Spock's.

“Spock.” Jim glanced back at him. “You're not dancing.” He stilled his movements and pulled back slightly. Spock tightened his grip on Jim's hips.

Spock had been too enthralled by Jim's gyrations and the effect they were having on his lower body to focus on responding with actions of his own. “What form of movement would you like me to perform?”

“Just do what I do, but in the opposite direction.” Jim continued his angled swaying.

Watching Jim's hips, Spock timed his motions to begin from the left just as Jim's buttocks brushed Spock's right thigh. As the music drummed through his auditory nerves and Jim's body heat warmed every exposed part of his skin, Spock admired how easily in sync they moved despite his lack of ability and their mutual inebriation. 

“Fascinating,” Spock whispered.

Jim threw his head back and laughed with sheer delight, the emotion echoed through his fingers until Spock felt a candid thrill burst through his nervous system. “This is amazing,” Jim shouted. Honey colored locks tickled Spock's cheek. He spun around in Spock's arms, altering his movements for frontal contact, his eyes—the lights above varying their shade of blue—locked on Spock's.

Spock knew dancing was not an activity he would take part in under normal circumstances, but at this particular juncture of the evening, he found himself wondering why he had never participated before. Jim was so close, a lazy grin stretched across his face that brightened as Spock moved against him, not as passionately as Jim, but steady with firm grips on Jim's waist, arms, shoulders, against his back, the supporting frame for his movements. 

After another two musical numbers, Jim pulled himself from Spock with a groan, declaring his imminent need for the toilet facilities. As Spock waited for him at the bar, the heat slowly dissipating from his skin without the press of Jim against him, he ordered another chocolate infused drink. 

Upon his return, Jim threw himself at Spock's back, gripping him around the chest, causing the now familiar flush to once again creep up Spock's torso to his cheeks. Noticing Spock's drink, Jim exuberantly praised his friend’s foresight, and requested a brightly colored mixed drink for himself. After emptying his glass expeditiously, Spock was feeling particularly daring. He demanded Jim accompany him on the dance floor once again, holding his hand out for Jim to take. The human grinned up at him, eyes wandering randomly over the features of Spock's face.

“I'm having so much fun with you, Spock,” Jim hummed, draping himself more fully over Spock. “So glad you decided to come with me.”

“I have found your company mutually satisfying.”

Jim’s lips brushed against Spock’s right ear. “Promise me something?” 

“Anything,” Spock whispered into Jim’s left ear.

“Don’t do that again,” Jim blinked slowly, his head falling forward to land against Spock’s shoulder. “What you did after Ceti Alpha III.”

Spock stiffened slightly, his thoughts cooling for a moment. “To what are you referring?”

“You left,” he mumbled into Spock’s shirt.

“I went nowhere, Jim.”

“You did. You started avoiding me.” Jim lifted his head, wrapping his hands around the back of Spock neck, locking their gazes together. “I know why. Because you felt something when we held hands in that stupid sleeping bag. Something you didn’t like—one of my thoughts. And I’m sorry if it was weird or gross, like what happened when you got stuck in my nightmare a few days ago.” His expression began to collapse as his speech withered. “I just don’t want you to leave me, Spock.”

“Jim.” Brushing a hand along the width of Jim's cheek, Spock traced the line of his jaw in slow, gentle movements. If the drinks he had consumed had not been enough to completely inebriate Spock, the feeling of Jim's skin and the rush of fevered emotions that projected themselves unhindered through the Vulcan's sensitive fingers was sending him over the tenuous edge of control. “Your anxiety is unfounded. I would never leave you,” he whispered.

“Promise me,” Jim insisted, leaning his face closer until their noses touched and Jim’s eyes filled his vision. Twin black holes outlined in blue fire. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, never touch you again, as long as you promise not to leave me.”

An overwhelming despair rushed through Spock. “I want you to touch me, Jim.”

Jim’s eyes widened.

“That was why I enforced a distance between us after Ceti Alpha III. Because I wanted to continue touching you but assumed you did not share my desires.”

Jim swallowed. “Spock, that’s not—I didn’t mean to make you think that, I’m sorry. When I pulled away, I was thinking about something. Being on Ceti Alpha in those shitty conditions reminded me of it. And I wanted to protect you from feeling the crap I was feeling. Through your telepathy,” he rambled, his glance darting away, lips moving silently as if shifting through incomprehensible phrases. Doubt whispered along the stroke of Jim’s fingers against the sharp hairs at the back of his neck. “Spock. I want you, I do, but you need to know—”

Spock did not want to know about any ‘but’ that would prevent him from feeling anything Jim was feeling, no matter how much excrement possessed his thoughts. “I promise,” Spock interrupted. “I promise I won’t leave you.”

Jim sighed, dawn returning to his expression as he smiled. “I don't know what I'd do without you, Spock. The ship would probably be in chaos. I would be in chaos.”

Spock frowned at the self-doubt the captain was projecting; illogical emotions that required remedy. “Unlikely. Despite your age and experience, you are an accomplished captain and your command abilities are admirable. I would go as far to state that your skills and personality are naturally suited to your position.” 

Jim suddenly threw his arms around Spock in a tight embrace. Reinforced his grip around him automatically, Spock’s head fell against Jim's neck to breath in his scent. “But still,” Jim huffed against Spock's ears, lips grazing against the lobe, “I'm a gazillion times more awesome with you by my side. We make a really great team.”

“Affirmative,” Spock replied, his nose brushing along the crease between Jim's neck and shoulder where the human's scent was especially distinctive. 

“I think,” Jim paused, inhaling and exhaling deeply, causing a shiver to run from the base of Spock's neck to his lower vertebrae, “that we could be really good together.”

“Jim,” Spock turned towards Jim's cheek, marveling at the pleasant sensation of Jim's stubble scratching at delicate skin. “We already are.”

Jim made a wordless sound of exasperation, anxiety, fear, anticipation. A myriad of emotions broiled together up through Spock's fingertips where they had moved to stroke the hair along Jim’s temple.

“Do you get what I'm saying though?” Jim pulled back and Spock groaned lightly at the reduced contact. “We could be,” he stammered slightly, “together, together.” Jim stared at Spock, pupils large, eyes practically glowing like the reflection of moonlight on water during their swim earlier that evening. Though, Spock still had the capacity to realize, perhaps this was the overstimulation of his senses caused by the five or was it ten, chocolate beverages he has consumed. 

“Yes, Jim,” Spock replied with confidence. “I understand what you are saying.”

Jim bit his lip, watching the progression of his hand along Spock's collarbone and down across his chest. “I really want to kiss you right now, but I'm afraid it'll freak you out.”

Spock inhaled, suddenly feeling lightheaded. “There is a one hundred percent chance the feeling of your lips pressed against my own would not cause me distress,” he answered softly, hope flashing through his brain like a long forgotten beacon, creating a sense of vertigo. “In fact, I would very much encourage it.”

Before Spock's inebriated consciousness could grasp the implication of his words, Jim had thrown himself forward pressing his mouth against Spock’s in an exuberantly human kiss. Without thinking, Spock's mouth opened in welcome, his arms pulling Jim as close as possible without harming the fragile human skeleton. His fingers, lips, skin, brain buzzed as if he had been shot with several adrenaline filled hyposprays.

After the kiss ended, Spock found the mathematical functions of his brain unable to calculate the time they had spent, mouths locked in a passionate dance of lips and tongues. He had discovered a penchant for taking Jim's lower lip between his teeth and biting down, enough to make the appendage red and plump, but not enough to draw blood, and spent an extended amount of time relishing in this new fixation as Jim made small sounds of satisfaction deep within his throat. For several moments, their lips separated to instead graze cheeks, necks, collar bones, before joining again. 

“You're really good at this,” Jim murmured as he pulled away for a breath of air. “I always wondered if you would be. I mean, I assumed you would because of your insanely fast learning curve. Remember that time I taught you how to play poker and you ended up with all the chips at the end of the game.” He grinned, laughing lightly. “But I thought you might not be into kissing.”

“Although Vulcans do not generally express their affection through the joining of lips, I find the activity exceedingly enjoyable.” He nipped at Jim's mouth once again.

“So how do Vulcan's do it, then?” Jim peppered small kisses along Spock's jawline. “Express their affection?”

“Like this.” Dragging a hand down Jim's arm to his hand, Spock lifted it, curled his friend’s pliant fingers, leaving the index and middle digits straight. He pressed his own fingers in an impression of Jim's, and stroked them from bottom to top and back again.

A small shiver shook Jim's body. “Wow.” He closed his eyes as Spock's fingers repeated their movements. “That's actually really hot.”

“Yes,” Spock agreed.

Jim's eyes widened. “Oh Gods. You were totally making out with me when we went skinny dipping.”

Spock filtered the memory from several hours ago through the mist of his inebriation. “Indeed. I suppose I was.”

Jim snorted. “All that hand grabbing you’ve been doing lately. I wondered if it meant something.”

“My attraction for you has been fragmenting my mental shields for some time, now.”

“Your attraction for me?” Jim smiled.

Spock's fingers wrapped around Jim's. “As we have now ‘made out’ in both the human and Vulcan fashion, I had assumed that truth would be known to you.”

“Well, the attraction is mutual.” Jim licked his lips.

“I am aware.” Spock pulled Jim back toward him for a kiss, hands easing under Jim's shirt to caress the skin underneath. 

“It feels nice when you touch me. Like a warm bath but more sexy,” Jim confessed during their next breath of air. His hands had slipped beneath Spock's undershirt until half of it had been dragged up his chest. Despite the exposure of his abdomen, he felt no chill. “That's a good idea. We should take a bath later. Together.” Jim raised his eyebrows up and down.

“Considering the body sweat we have accumulated during our dancing, it would be logical to bathe upon our return to the hotel.”

Jim leaned in for another kiss, tongue driving instantly down Spock's throat. Spock's hands moved downwards to cup the abundant flesh of Jim's buttocks. The barrier of fabric between Spock's hands and Jim's flesh was inconveniencing him, and Spock considered the logistics of removing Jim's pants and whether it would be acceptable at this point in—

“Get a room!” A voice yelled from behind them. The noise startled Jim, and he separated from Spock with a snorting burst of laughter.

“Too sexy for you, huh?” Jim jutted out his hips. “You're just jealous because I've got a hot Vulcan groping my ass and you don't!”

The voice continued to yell obscenities and derogatory comments in reply to Jim's bragging. Considering how dangerously incensed Jim was becoming and his history of taking part in brawls within similar establishments, Spock assessed that now would be an appropriate time to depart. Besides, Spock's desire to take Jim somewhere where he could remove his clothes without disturbance was becoming uncontrollable. 

Spock gripped Jim's upper arm, leaning in to speak quietly against his ear. “Jim. Let us find a place where we can enjoy one another's company in solitude.”

Jim's focus returned to Spock, the stranger forgotten despite the human’s continued incessant remarks behind them. “Yeah, ok,” he replied, voice husky. “I'm all over that idea. I'm all over you,” he grinned, reaching to stroke the hand that clutched his arm. “Or I will be once you get me out of here.”

Before Jim could conclude the sentence, Spock was moving hurriedly toward the exit, Jim scrambling behind him, giggling wildly.

* 

“This could be our first and only night together,” Jim whispered as he pressed against Spock’s side, warming him against the cool night air as they steadily proceeded in the direction of their hotel.

Spock paused. That statement was unacceptable. 

“No,” he objected.

“I know you promised you wouldn’t leave, but I shouldn’t have made you. It’s a promise I can’t make you keep,” Jim jabbered. His body began to shake, the fingers of his free hand pressing against his forehead. Waves of despair burned through their contact, watering in the corners of Spock's eyes. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to clear the sensation.

“Jim.” Fingers moved to trail across Jim's cheekbones, his index finger circled the groove from hairline to cheek, drawn to the conflicted surge of Jim's mind. He had no desire to resist. “Will you give me your thoughts?”

Lifting his head slightly, Jim peered up at Spock with reddened eyes. “You want to meld?”

“Yes,” Spock breathed, the openness in Jim's eyes, the lack of resistance with his touch and thoughts suffusing Spock with need. The desire to meld with Jim had been an ache in his cerebral cortex that had only grown as his friendship for the captain had morphed into something new and persistent. “You have doubts about the strength of my emotions for you. Therefore, allow me to prove them to you.” 

An appealing flush had returned to Jim's cheek bones, as Spock traced the warmth with feathering grazes. “Ok,” Jim replied simply, a gentle smile quirking his lips that made Spock question whether a searing kiss while maintaining the grip of the meld would not only be possible but perhaps even provide an added pleasure to their joining. Never one to object to scientific experimentation, Spock spread his fingers against Jim's face as he bent to claim his friend’s lips.

“My mind to your mind.” He grazed a single finger from the tip of Jim's hairline over his meld points, his need to join with Jim becoming unbearable. 

*

His body, his brain, his thoughts, every single sense from sight to sound was filled with Jim. Untangling himself from Jim’s mind had been physically painful, his hands still clutching desperately against the captain’s forehead. 

Spock could not have heard the human correctly.

“Marry me,” Jim repeated, an added note of desperation in his voice.

There was only one logical answer. To find such a mind, such a being, so compelling, so compatible with one's own katra, was like a thirsty Vulcan finding water within the desert sands of Vulcan-that-was. A gift that only a fool would let slip away through clumsy fingers. 

“Yes,” Spock responded with conviction. 

*

Jim insisted on a legal binding of their persons in a marriage ceremony immediately.

“Regulation twenty-three point seven.” A sparkle of hope in his frantic gaze. His face glowed after their meld as if heated by an inner sun.

“Regulation?” Spock repeated in between breaths. Each thought he attempted to conjure outside the sphere of Jim's physical presence moved through his neural pathways like feet through the swampy environment of their scientific mission on Tuivis several months ago. Jim had slipped on a rock and ended up with a large segment of wet dirt covering his rear end. “Twenty three point seven?” Spock finished. He did not understand why Jim felt it necessary to recall regulation clauses during a moment infused with such joy, especially since the captain generally had an adverse response to rules.

“How can you not know about regulation twenty three point seven, Spock?” Jim laughed. “Married couples are allowed to serve together on the same starship if no emotional compromise is suspected.”

Spock's grip in Jim's hair tightened at the revelation until Jim yelped slightly, batting at Spock's arm, accusing him of setting off pre-mature baldness. He loosened his grip, content to ply a lock gently between two fingers, as long as his hands remained connected to Jim's person. “We can continue to command the Enterprise and remain in a romantic relationship?” Spock queried. 

“Yes!” Jim cried out excitedly. His breath quickened, his heightened thoughts flowing in a rush through Spock's skin until he felt newly drunk on Jim's enthusiasm. “Now,” Jim exclaimed, “let's do it now. This planet is elopement central—it's like it's meant to be, Spock!” He pressed several passionate kisses to Spock’s face, scalding his mouth, chin, cheeks.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “It is oh two hundred hours. It is unlikely we will find an establishment that can perform a legal marriage ceremony with such abrupt notice.

“This is Risa. Of course it's possible.”

Spock frowned. “Clarify.”

Jim waved a hand toward the end of the street. “We must have passed two or three twenty-four hour marriage shops. Anytime, any species.”

“I doubt the ability of such institutions to perform an authentic ritual.” 

“Well, we won't know unless we go check one out.” Jim prodded Spock in the cheek several times, an act that eventual shifted into a caress across his lips. “Do you want to marry me or not, Spock?”

“I do.” He took the exploratory finger between his lips, biting down gently on the tip. 

Jim inhaled forcefully, swaying where he stood. “Good, because I can't wait much longer. I want you inside me. In more ways than one.”

Spock released Jim's finger, letting it hang in midair. “Do you recall the location of the expediently paced marriage establishments?” Spock asked, gripping Jim's shoulders to steady him. As Spock was feeling similarly lightheaded with the uncommon excitement, revelation of mutual feelings, and the ten or fifteen drinks he had consumed, Jim's unsteady movements instead caused Spock to stumble backwards into the building behind him. Luckily, the structure, despite appearing to waver before his eyes, was able to hold the weight of an adult Vulcan and the human male he had dragged against him.

Jim had resumed another fit of high pitched laughter accompanied by noisy exhalations of air forced through his nose. “That a way!” Jim pointed to the left, arm drifting lazily in the air.

“I will follow your lead,” Spock nodded, pushing Jim and himself upward with only a few minor stumbles. 

Although Jim assured Spock the marriage establishments were close, it took them a significant amount of time to arrive at their destination. Jim led them down the street, turning right onto a main throughout fare. Then left into a small ally behind several restaurants where Jim walked into a garbage receptacle, and Spock stepped on the tail of a small scavenging creature that shrieked at him shockingly before darting between Jim's legs. The sudden surprise caused Jim to trip over the edge of the sidewalk's curb. Luckily, Spock's reflexes were stable enough to catch Jim by the arm before his face hit the pavement. The act sent Jim into exclamations of appreciation that Spock had saved his face from being disfigured before his wedding night. Which led to Jim showing Spock his appreciation by pressing his soon to be husband against a nearby wall and entwining their hands and lips for a period of time Spock had not been inclined to tally, his mind occupied wholly by the way Jim angled his thigh between Spock's legs. 

Just as their breathing was becoming increasingly labored and Spock was beginning to determine how much longer he could resist removing Jim's clothing, Jim jumped back, his face glowing pink. “Marriage first,” he exclaimed, pulling at his pants where Spock's greedy hands had begun unbuttoning them. “Don't want you dining and dashing.” He grabbed Spock's hand, continuing their journey.

They made a left at an intersection when Jim suddenly jumped up in an animated manner and pointed ahead. “There!”

Before them stood a structure aglow with various shades of vibrant pastels from an assortment of lighting hanging along the rafters and windows. A blinking sign that flashed blindingly red at the foot of the pathway listed an extremely varied compendium of legally binding ceremonies the establishment could perform. Human marriages were on the list, including, Spock was shocked and slightly baffled to see, Vulcan bondings.

As if he had read Spock's mind, Jim pointed at the sign with his expressive finger. “Hey look, they do the Vulcan version, too.” He gripped Spock's bicep, his exhilaration building. “We could get double married. Vulcan and human. Then we'd be super official.”

Despite the continued haze of unfiltered emotions, both his own and Jim's, a sudden chill pressed at the back of his thoughts. “Vulcan bonds are,” Spock fought for the appropriate words tangled in the string of passions flooding his limbic system. “Very bonding.” 

“Good,” Jim laughed. “Then you can't leave me, right?”

Spock was amazed by his friend’s continued doubt, even after sharing their intense emotions for one another so intimately during their joining of minds. “Even if you had not expressed desire for my person, I would not leave you.” He pressed his hand over top of Jim's. “I would be content to remain as your colleague and friend if it meant I could remain by your side.”

Jim blinked thrice, quickly, staring down at their linked hands for a moment. “I know. I felt it when we,” he tapped the side of his head. “And you saw how I felt too, right?”

Spock nodded.

“It’s just,” Jim’s fingers fiddled within Spock’s grasp. “I know you feel this for me now. But, I’m afraid you might change your mind.”

“I assuredly will not,” Spock answered, ardently. 

Jim watched Spock for a moment, his eyes lowering momentarily. “Call me greedy, but I want to be with you any and every way I can.”

His mind called out to Jim, his katra recognized its mate from the single meld they had shared. “I desire the same with you, Jim.”

Jim glowed and Spock burned, dazed by the brilliance, his faculties increasingly degenerating. “Then let's do this.” Jim raised a buoyant fist into the air.

They stepped into the excessively lit building.

*~*~*~*


	3. Chapter 3

Jim groaned, awake but probably half dead if the rotten taste filling his mouth, the pounding in his head, and the sudden roll in his gut were proof of anything. Sleep caked his eyelids—he rubbed at them feebly, rolling onto his back with another grunt, weaker than the last.

Something filtered through the pain, a small flame like a flickering candle. He watched it dance behind his eyes, mesmerized by the sight. Contentment washed through him, half removed, as he felt the comfort of the mattress beneath him, his body sated with sleep, a slow building desire as his mate stirred next to him, insulated within his body heat—

His head brushed cool skin, hair tickling his ear. Jim cracked his eyes open another few centimeters. A male from the angels he felt against his side. Dammit, what's his name? Where did they meet? Shit, he couldn’t remember a fucking thing how many whiskeys had he—

“Good morning, Jim.”

With a jolt, Jim’s eyes flew open. He jumped up abruptly, a movement his post hangover body normally wouldn’t attempt before noon and several cups of coffee. He was dreaming, he was still drunk, the guy wasn’t a guy but a shapeshifter that Bones had paid to play a sick joke on his stupid friend.

Why the hell was Spock in his bed naked?

“Are you well?” Spock asked, his face as stoic and logical as ever. However, the affronting effect this expression usually caused was softened by the fact that Spock was naked, in bed, with Jim, who was also extremely, absolutely unclothed. “Your motor skills appear to be impaired.”

Realizing he’d been staring with his mouth hanging open, Jim closed it, swiping a hand at the drool he felt crusting against his chin. “Spock,” Jim coughed out hoarsely. He was having trouble tearing his eyes from Spock’s hair. It was slightly tousled, the ends curling upwards over his ears. On Spock, never a hair out of place, tousled looked like a bad case of bed head. And kind of, unbelievably hot.

“Jim,” Spock replied, his lips possibly quirking for a fraction of a second to the right before being forced back into a smooth line. Perhaps it was the hangover haze, but there was a brightness in Spock’s eyes that made Jim feel odd, like this whole thing was some shore leave hallucination and he’d finally gone bonkers just like every authority figure in his childhood predicted he would. Spock’s hand moved from where it was cocooned under three comforters, his head poking out from the top, cheeks flushed green like a spring sprout. He pressed his fingers against Jim’s, tentatively at first, then moved them in a slow firm stroke from knuckles to nails and back up again. Jim suddenly felt very warm, and it wasn’t the who-knows-how-many glasses of booze still coursing through his blood.

“What—,” Jim paused to steady his breathing as Spock’s fingers entwined gloriously with his. He really shouldn’t be thinking about how good it felt. Jim had promised himself to stop thinking things like that about his first officer for both their sakes. Get it together Kirk, you slut—

“Spock,” he breathed out. “We’re in bed.”

The look on Spock’s face was obviously amusement, a look the commander always denied when Jim pointed it out. The friendly game had become almost ritualistic between them. Jim teasing Spock about emotional reactions the Vulcan may or may not have shown, while his first officer pretended to be scandalized, but not offended because of course Vulcans don't get pissed over such trivial matters.

“Affirmative.” Spock's hand turned Jim’s upward, stroking a thumb down his palm.

“And we’re not wearing any clothes.” Jim looked down at himself, still unbelieving.

“Indeed, we are currently unclothed.” Spock's body shifted under the blanket, moving closer so that Jim felt the full breadth of his first officer’s birthday suit against his own. “And I have no present desire to remedy our current state.” His hand travelled northward to Jim’s wrist, up his arm.

“Don’t you find that, uh.” Jim watched the movement of Spock’s hand, his skin tingling, a heat licking against his skull, making him heady, dulling the pounding, heightening the sensation of how good Spock’s fingertips, his chest pressed against Jim’s hip, feet against his, felt. So fucking good.

“Odd?” he blurted out belatedly.

“No,” Spock replied, continuing his ministrations. “As we were bonded last night, it is logical that the hours following the ceremony were spent in consummating the act.” Somehow, Spock’s other hand had ended up against Jim’s back, seconds later his eyes met Jim's. And then Spock was groping his ass. Actually squeezing. Jim sighed, which abruptly turned into a choking gasp as Spock’s meaning blasted through his aroused, hangover-addled mind.

“Wait—what? Bonded? What do you mean?”

Spock’s hand stilled on Jim’s wrist. He looked up at him speculatively, any vestige of emotion slipping from his face as gently as it had arrived. “You do not remember,” he stated, his hand sliding away.

“Remember? Remember what?” Jim asked, fear building. Another emotion panged at the back of his head, foreign, as if left over from a dream. There one moment then gone as Spock sat up, his spine stiffening, his gaze moving from Jim to the wall.

“I have made a grievous error,” Spock replied, stoicism setting across his features so swiftly that Jim wondered at the reality of the warmth he had seen glowing across Spock's face like daylight only moments before. It was the blank-faced offense that Spock used when he was being deliberately obtuse. Like that time Jim had joked about the suspected vanilla flavor of Vulcan mating habits and instantly regretted it after Spock refused to say more than “Affirmative, Captain” or “Negative, Captain” for the rest of the day.

Spock stood, giving Jim a view he’d dreamt about, wondered about, maybe caught a glimpse of while showering in the communal gym locker room after sparring or working out together.

“What error?” Jim insisted. Would anyone blame him for starring as Spock bent to retrieve his pants from an uncharacteristically messy pile on the floor? He’d barely, somehow, made it into Spock’s bed and it was already looking to be the last time. “Sleeping with me?” Jim choked out.

Spock straightened, his head turning halfway towards Jim, face hidden. “No.” Jim regretfully watched him pull on his pants. “If only I had left it at that.”

“Don't pull that tight-lipped Vulcan shit on me, Spock.” Jim flung the blankets off his body, intending to get in his first officer’s face because that was the only thing that usually worked against his emotional barricades.

Remembering nothing was under the sheets except his ass, Jim pulled them back up. For some reason, probably the fierce look Spock was giving him, the slight twitch in his jaw, hands clenched at his sides instead of hidden behind his back like Spock did when he was trying to appear nonchalant, Jim didn't think this was the time for nudity.

Jim swallowed, the sound of his constricted throat echoing in his ears. “Whatever happened, I'm sure we can sort it out.”

Spock glared at him. “Your lack of memory pertaining to the bonding contract you undertook with my person eight point three hours ago, despite its serious and binding nature, leaves me with suspecions of doubt on the ability to sort out—” Spock paused. As if he had suddenly realized his fingernails were slicing into his palms, his shoulders eased, hands slackening to rest behind his back. “—whatever happened.”

“Spock.” Jim slapped his hands against the mattress, kicking a foot under the sheets. Damn his sudden modesty because this shit never got results, especially with his insanely uptight first. “Maybe you could be so kind as to enlighten me about what the hell is going on so we can take it from there.” He rubbed at his head. A sudden swell of uncertainty had pushed through his thoughts before being swallowed up barely a second later—probably by the hangover. He shook his head. “To be fair, judging by how my head feels like it's about to explode, I'm pretty sure I had way too much to drink last night. And alcohol makes humans kind of forgetful.”

Spock continued to bore a hole of what Jim could only imagine was malice, disgust, regret, or stale disinterest through where his scowl landed on Jim’s left ear. “I am aware of human anatomy and the effect of alcoholic substances upon it.”

Jim shifted on the bed, snorting out a laugh that sent a throbbing echo through his skull. “Apparently you are. Considering the state of my ass right now.” Cringing, Jim pressed a fist against his forehead. His attempt at modesty lasted, what—five minutes?

Spock's lips parted slightly, swollen, more green than usual, and Jim chastised the fantasies that flooded his head as he imagined how they got that way. Damn boozy amnesia, what a waste. Bones was right, he had to stop drinking so much.

Something cool washed over his brain, easing his headache. Jim jumped slightly, unaware that Spock had returned to his side, a shadow against the light streaming through the window.

“You are injured?” The look in Spock's eyes sent a shiver running through Jim's body. Suddenly, he felt really stupid, as if he'd just won the biggest prize ever and then left it at the side of his old dusty Iowa driveway with a 'free' sign slapped on the side.

“No.” Jim lifted his hand to grab Spock's where it hung helpless, and then thought better of it, his fist dropping back to the mattress. “I'm just being a smart ass. Look, I'm sorry for getting drunk, probably taking advantage of you, forgetting all about it the morning after, and then acting like an insensitive jerk.”

“You did not take advantage of me, Jim. I was a willing participant in last night’s events.” Spock took a step back.

“Wow, ok.” Jim told his wandering mind to shut the fuck up for a few seconds. “Last night, then. How did this exactly happen?” Jim waved a hand at the mess of sheets around him.

Spock's hands returned to his back, a sign of nothing good to come. Or everything good—Jim wasn't so sure he could trust his Spock reading skills at this point because honestly, he'd never imagined a drunken night of mutual shore leave sex in their future.

“We participated in a bonding ceremony,” Spock replied in a monotone voice that made Jim want to roll his eyes and laugh at the same time.

“Yeah. I got that,” Jim frowned. “But a bond of what? Our amazing, life altering friendship?”

“No,” Spock replied. “Or only in part. A Vulcan bond could be compared to a human marriage. Although, it is much more than that.”

Jim would've thought it was a joke if Vulcans lied. Or joked.

“Marriage? More than marriage. Holy shit.” Jim ran a hand through his hair, the joints trembling slightly. “How much did we drink? Gods. How hammered did you have to get before you wanted to marry me?”

Spock's back straighten, if that was even possible. Jim would need a ruler to draw a line as perfect. “You consumed five Romulan Ales, two glasses of whiskey, three beers, and one mixed drink with unknown ingredients. In regards to my state of mind, no hammers were used upon my person, as can obviously be seen by my lack of bruising or concussion. However, I did consume sixteen drinks that were fifty to eighty percent chocolate.”

Jim's eyes widened and he couldn't help the choke of laughter that bubbled around the frog in his throat. “Are you telling me you had a sugar rush then suddenly thought I'd make a good husband?”  
“You are the one who proposed marriage to my person,” Spock answered stiffly.

“What?” Jim rubbed both hands over his face, scrubbing roughly. This had to be a prank. Bones had got Spock in on it somehow. The two had gained some comradery in their mutual attempt to force Jim into med bay when it wasn't entirely necessary. Jim Kirk proposing marriage, drunk or no, sounded like a gag out of one of Scotty's amateur comedy acts. “How do you remember all of this anyway? You drank more than me.”

“Vulcans have eidetic memories. Although the controls upon my emotions were inhibited negatively by seventy one point two percent, I recall every moment of our evening at the club. Including your proposal, our bonding at a twenty-four hour expedited marriage establishment, and our subsequent performance of coitus in the alley behind the building, and later here in our hotel room.”

“Ok, this tops the worst thing I've done while drunk.” Spock turned suddenly, fidgeting with his PADD on the desk. Jim rubbed at his temples, a sharp pain pressing against his skull. “Sorry for dragging you into this mess with me, Spock. Guess that's the last time you'll ever go on shore leave with me.” He laughed, trying to break the awkward chill emanating from the sharp line of Spock's back. “Well, I'm sure we can annul it or something. We can't be the first people who've done this on Risa and regretted it the next morning.”

“If you wish, Captain,” Spock replied, his focus remaining on his PADD. “However, it will not be a simple matter of paperwork, as a Vulcan bond is not only legally binding, but also mentally enforced.”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” Jim sighed, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling, his head spinning. “Don't tell me we can read each other's minds.” Jim huffed out a chuckle.  
Spock rested the PADD back on the counter silently. Jim's head banged against the headboard in a clumsy scramble of epiphany.

“We can can't we? Holy shit!” Jim jumped from the bed, his facade of modesty forgotten, and pushed himself into Spock's space, the Vulcan's face resolutely turned from Jim's. “When I woke up this morning, the strange thing I felt in my head—it was your thoughts.”

A flush spread from Spock's cheeks to the tip of his ears.

“I apologize for my lack of shielding. It is possible I was still compromised from the previous evening and was therefore unable to prevent stimulated mental projection.”

“How is this even possible?” Jim asked, flinging his arms about in an attempt to pull Spock's attention from the empty wall in front of him.

Spock moved, stepping away to glance out the large window facing the ocean. Jim tailed him like a sad mind fucked dog. “A Vulcan bond is a powerful mental link between two compatible individuals. Even though humans are psy-null, your species possess the physiology required for such a connection. Jim,” Spock turned a bare fraction toward him, not quite looking at his friend, but enough so that Jim could attempt to read the almost scowl on Spock's face. “You are unclothed and facing a public beach. Dressing yourself would be prudent at this time.”

“Exposing myself to a bunch of beachcombers is the last thing on my mind right now.” He pressed a hand against Spock's entwined wrists resting in a tight knot against his back. Spock flinched, fleeing across the room again at a hard walk. Jim leaned against the window, crossing his arms against his chest, the cool glass a calming shock against his thrumming skull. “So, you can read my thoughts,” Jim stated. “Even when we’re not touching?”

“Correct, physical contact is not necessary. However, I would not presume to know your thoughts without your consent,” Spock snapped, his eyes trained on Jim's chest from across the room. “I have shielded my mind against yours.”

Jim stepped forward. “Ok, read me now. What am I thinking?”

Spock's eyes moved upward, landing on Jim's throat. Progress.

“You are wondering whether I have marked you with my teeth last night, causing raised bruising which I assume is the definition of a 'hickey.' And how many said marks I have created.” Spock's eyes finally met Jim's own. “The answer is five.”

“Shit,” Jim muttered, stepping back as if increasing the distance between them could affect Spock's mind reading powers. Bones rampaging about 'Vulcan voodoo' when Spock had mind melded with a rock creature during a particularly eventful first contact suddenly echoed in his mind as if his friend had stepped over his metaphorical grave. Jim shivered.

“As I have explained to Doctor McCoy on more occasions than I care to remember, Vulcans do not practice the old Earth religion of voodoo,” Spock retorted, an obvious hint of distaste in his voice. It figured Jim's thoughts would leave a bitter aftertaste.

Jim felt sick to his stomach.

“Ok, enough, enough,” Jim breathed, pressing a hand to his belly, his back against the nearest wall. If Spock could read his ridiculous after thoughts, Jim only imagined what else Spock could dig up.

His head suffused with warmth, as if he were being wrapped around endless layers of blankets. Like his mom used to do when he was young and she had leave during the freeze your toes off Iowa winters. Mummy Jimmy, a game they played, that made his kid-self feel safe and warm until he got back from Tarsus, grim and pissed with life, and the blankets felt like restraints and overcompensation.

“Jim.” Soft breath filled his ear, long fingers seared against his bare shoulder. “You are unwell.”

“Get out of my head,” Jim pulled away from Spock's hand. The steadiest thing in his life now a heavy weight in his brain, pulling him off course, neurons firing in directions he never had the nerve to contemplate. He ran into the bathroom, muscles straining to keep him upright until he could throw his head over the toilet bowl and spew out the leftovers of his night of shame.

*

One night into vows he couldn't remember making, into the bed of someone who was so high up the scale grade that Jim couldn't believe the guy was even friends with him, and already he had crashed the whole thing into his wall of issues. Jim Kirk, captain of relationship screw-ups.

When Jim finished emptying the contents of his stomach and butting his forehead against the toilet rim in an attempt to knock the idiocy out of him along with the headache, he finally rummaged up the courage to leave the bathroom and face an impassive Vulcan who must be oozing with ephemeral pissiness and disappointment.

The hotel room was empty, a glass of water and a clean towel waiting on the bedside table with a notification flickering on his comm that his first had decided to beam back to the Enterprise to 'tend to a sensitive experiment in the science labs.' Despite his lack of physical expressions of anger, no one made Jim feel as guilty when he screwed up like Spock did.

An ache drummed rhythmically through his head and now Jim wasn't sure if it was his clingy hangover, or Spock's thoughts making him feel like shit after treating him like shit.

Jumping into the shower, Jim programmed the sonics to their coldest temperature setting, the pressure warping his skin into craters. He pressed his head against the wall, gritting his teeth until his skin was numb. His head was still a throbbing mess, heavy and weighted.

Pulling on some shorts and grabbing a towel, Jim stalked out to the hotel’s pool, flopping onto a deck chair, hoping the sun could burn the pain from his head. He watched, nosed pressed against the fabric of the chair, as a human woman rubbed her partner's back with sunscreen, laying it on so thick the cream gave him a ghostly glow. She listed the harms of overexposed rays on human skin as her hand moved.

The memory of Spock's hand against his skin, methodical and precise, flashed through Jim’s head. There had been a slight tremor in Spock’s fingers that made Jim question the possibility of his friend’s feelings. A spike of excitement and then fear had filled Jim at the thought that Spock might feel the same. And now that Jim was beginning to understand the implications, he wondered why he had even asked Spock to join him on shore leave, dragging his first down into a confusing abyss of seduction and debasement.

Frustrated with his ever increasing headache, Jim escaped to his hotel room. He spent the last two days of shore leave watching melodramatic Risan films and eating greasy room service food, delaying the inevitable. The image of Spock’s eyes staring at him with judgment, disgust, and hurt from across the Enterprise’s bridge filled Jim with fear.

*

“You look like shit, kid,” Bones glared at him, pulling down the bottom of Jim's eyelid to flash a light in his pupils, as Jim squinted and fidgeted. Barely a minute after stepping off the transporter pad, Bones had demanded the captain visit med bay for a medical to make sure he hadn't “picked up some parasite from all those seedy Risan bars.”

Jim had considered flight, holing up in the Jefferies tubes, hiding behind one of Sulu’s monster plants in the solarium, but he was drained physically. Thinking of the effort required to avoid his persistently unavoidable friend overwhelmed the last vestiges of his strength. His head still felt heavy, the pain now concentrated to a spot at the back of his skull.

“Spock was supposed to keep you out of trouble, not abandon you on the planet of sin,” Bones grumbled, moving to Jim's left eye. Jim's body stiffened at the mention of Spock. “Your eyes are all blood shot and you're sitting like you've got a broom stuck up your ass.” Bones' gaze widened in fury. “I swear to God, Jim. If you let some weirdo stick something up your ass.” His nostrils flared. “Did you wear protection? Did he wear protection? What species? I'll have to check for specific SDIs.”

“Bones, back off.” Jim pulled away from his friend's ever fixed gaze. Those are soul searching eyes, Jim thought when he first met Len, a little drunk and lyrical after partaking in the contents of the man's flask. It was as if he could read every hurt and wrong in every line and blemish marked on Jim's face. “I don't have anything stuck up my ass,” Jim muttered, too aware of Bones' echoing voice in the small exam room, and the likelihood of nurses and patients listening in on the other side of the curtain.

“Uh huh,” Bones hummed, suspicion oozing from the cynical tilt of his lips. “So, that's not why Spock returned early from shore leave? He didn't catch you making out with some miscreant behind the palm trees?”

Jim gaped at him, speechless for a moment. He could tell his friend wanted to talk, about what happened on Risa, about Spock’s abandonment, about how all this related to Jim’s issues. ‘Try talking it out,’ Bones always said, the last thing Jim ever wanted to do. Keeping his problems safely bottled up was perfectly acceptable to him. But now his thoughts were in Spock’s head, the mental equivalent of a bull in a China shop. And there was no knowing the amount of damage he might cause—he’d fuck Spock's head up until there was nothing left but a confused jumble of mismatched pieces.

“There aren’t any palm trees on Risa,” Jim mumbled.

“Not the point.” Bones ran a scanner down Jim's frame, peering at the screen.

“You must think I'm a real asshole if that's the first image that comes to mind,” Jim muttered, too aware of the truth of his assholery.

“No.” Bones looked up at him, his expression loosening for a bare moment. “I just think you're really good at sabotaging your own happiness.”

Jim looked away, closing his eyes against the pain in his head.

“Your vitals are a bit off,” Bones replied. “Are you experiencing any symptoms?”

“Just my head,” Jim shrugged. “Got a headache.

“How long?” Bones asked.

“Two days. It's probably just a leftover from the hangover.”

Bones rolled his eyes, sighing loudly. “Though I wouldn't put it past you, a hangover shouldn't last that long.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the cupboard and tossed it at Jim. “Start by drinking this. You're dehydrated.” He glanced back down at his scanner, frown carving crevices into his face. “But that doesn't explain the amount of hormones your brain is firing off. You have to give me a list of everything you ate, drank, and touched while on Risa.”

“Bones,” Jim moaned. “This is a waste of time. I'll chug a few liters of water, then I'll be fine. Stop fussing.”

“No, I will not stop fussing,” Bones grimaced, crossing his arms over his chest. “Cough up. I'll stand here all day and lock you up with me if I have to. Or,” he leaned in, an evil glint in his eyes, “I could ask Spock about all the crap you ingested. He always remembers everything. Especially everything related to you.”

Jim could feel the blood rushing to his face with no will or way to stop it.

“I had a bunch of hamburgers, mango juice, water, my standard breakfasts, and too much Romulan ale. The usual. Nothing I'm allergic too, Spock made sure of that, and nothing I've never eaten before.”

“Uh huh.” Bones jabbed a hypo in Jim's neck, his hand moving so fast there was no time to dodge. “We'll see what Spock has to say about that.” Jim yelped, rubbing at his neck. As Bones turned to dispose of the empty hypo, Jim wondered if they were in range of a black hole he could jump into.

*

When Jim arrived for bridge shift that morning, Spock was in the labs, still working on his ‘sensitive experiment.’ It was a slow day in the chair, so Jim spent most of the next eight hours reminiscing about a thousand different wrong ways to fix his relationship with Spock. He tried to ignore the black wall structured around the ache in his head, filling him with an overwhelming sense of loss and a persistent worry that whatever was missing was never coming back.

Jim stared at the flash of warp trails on the view screen and thought of Spock. Every time the turbolift doors swished open behind him, Jim simultaneously hoped and feared it would be Spock stepping on to the bridge. Sulu had to repeat his coordinate changes three times while Jim's head was turned, glued in the direction of the lift as a group of crew members crowded out.

“Someone had a little too much fun on shore leave,” Sulu joked.

“I don’t know what you’re taking about,” Jim said, returning his attention to the abandoned PADD in his lap.

Chekov turned, his ears perked to the pilot’s humored tone. “Ah, ze keptin’s face is looking wery pale,” he nodded. Both of them stared at the captain, eyes wide and analyzing until Jim told them to get back to work before they flew the ship into an asteroid.

By the time his shift ended, Jim had worked himself into a manic anxiety for no reason. Spock never returned to the bridge. He was probably intently crouched over a microscope doing anything but wasting a single thought on his wayward captain.

*

Spock avoided the bridge again the next day. And the day after that, citing the same reasoning each time: a “sensitive experiment requiring his expertise.” Although Jim was relieved of the awkwardness of seeing Spock after their night of passion, Jim felt edgy on the third day—annoyed Spock was drawing this out for so long.

“Is Commanded Spock suffering from too much fun, as well,” Chekov asked, turning in his seat to face Jim. “This is third day he has been working all day in labs, and it is nice and dark in there away from bright lights of ship’s bridge.”

Sulu snorted. “Yeah, right. I doubt Spock’s idea of fun is as nefarious as the captain’s.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Did Starfleet hire you two to fly this ship, or gossip?”

Chekov shrugged, his face glowing innocently. “It is wery easy to navigate ship through Egilian system, Keptin. We be needing interesting discussion to pass time.”

“Hey, Jim,” Sulu whispered, leaning over the back of his chair. “Did you try the Romulan ale on Risa like I told you? Was it as strong as they say?”

Chekov’s eyes widened. “Did you bring us some back? As souvenir?”

“No,” Jim shook his head. “Trust me. Drinking that stuff is a bad idea.”

Sulu and Chekov glanced at each other before staring at Jim again, waiting for a further explanation Jim had no intention of giving.

“You’re being weirdly tight lipped.” Sulu frowned. “You sure you’re okay?”

Jim was getting sick of being asked that question. “Fine, I’m fine.”

As Jim stepped into the turbolift at the end of his shift, all he wanted to do for the rest of the night was knock himself out with a sleep med and crash in his quarters. The pain in his head continued to wear at his skull. But before Jim could order the lift down, Uhura rushed in just as the doors were about to close.

Facing Jim, she crossed her arms across her chest. “What did you do to, Spock?”

Jim pressed a hand across his eyes, blurring dots speckling his vision. “You better ask Spock. He remembers more than me.”

“I did,” Uhura frowned. “He wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

“Not surprised.” Jim leaned against the wall, rubbing a hand distractedly along his arm.

“Did you sleep with him?” Uhura asked.

Jim moaned, head snapping back with an echoing thump against the lift. “Do we have to do this now?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” She leaned against the wall beside him. “What are your intentions with, Spock.”

He gaped at her. “Who are you, Spock’s dad?”

“I’m his friend and yours.” She lifted her brows insistently. “Well?”

Jim sighed. “All I know is that I don’t want to hurt him.”

“If that’s true, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“I know, I know,” Jim’s voice rose as he rubbed at his eyes, pressing a thumb along the bridge of his nose, wiling the pain to stop. Gods he needed to sleep. “I was drunk. I never would have let myself do something so stupid if I was sober.”

“He loves you,” Uhura spoke, softly.

“Shit,” Jim breathed. He pushed down the ecstasy he desperately wanted to feel. It didn’t matter what he wanted—love or no, Spock wasn’t for him. The poor guy had no idea what he’d got himself into.

“Do you love him?”

Jim ground his teeth together. He felt too much for Spock—that was the problem. It was just like him to push Spock into a marriage when he was senselessly drunk, desperate to bind Spock to him permanently before he could change his mind.

His head dipped forward.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Me,” Jim huffed, the space around him beginning to tip despite the ship’s steady course heading to Grian II.

A hand pressed against his shoulder. “Hikaru was right, you don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” Jim snapped, regretting the harsh tone instantly as Uhura’s grip loosened. He shook his head, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, I’m just tired. I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.” The lift landed on deck two, and Jim stepped off.

“Sleep on it,” Uhura called as the door slid shut, “then you need to talk to Spock.”

Fear flushed through Jim at the thought. He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea as he stumbled to his quarters.

*

On the fourth day after his return from Risa, Jim walked onto the bridge expecting to see the science station empty. Instead, he saw Spock's ass bent over the scanner.

“Spock,” Jim blurted.

Pausing for a second while Jim watched the line of his shoulders, imaging an almost invisible flash of tension, Spock stepped away from his console and turned. “Captain,” he met Jim's eyes, face impassive, nothing readable in the shade of his eyes. His eyebrow lifted as Jim continued to stare like a deer caught in headlights. “Do you require my assistance?”

“Uhh, no. Carry on,” Jim stuttered, waving a hand stiffly at Spock's station. Uhura was right; he needed to have a heart to heart with Spock. But causing a scene on the bridge would only give his pilot and navigator more gossip to debate during their remaining flight to Grian II.

Spock nodded once before turning his back. Jim tried not to stumble into his chair and through his daily routine, checking status reports, responding to crew communications, and planning landing parties to establish first contact with a recently post warp species on the approaching planet.

Normally a first contact mission would spur Jim with excitement. But he was currently too busy trying to will his throbbing headache into submission. The pressure was slowly expanding against his skull—and Jim wondered what would happen when it ran out of space. He tried not to glance at the science station every ten seconds, hoping for some signal in the alignment of Spock’s spine. Or for the commander to actually turn around and look at Jim just once during the eight hour shift.

*

“I told you to finally ask Spock out on date, not marry the damn hobgoblin!” Len bellowed. His voice rang through Jim's ears even after his friend’s barrage had ended.

“Spock told you,” Jim mumbled, back caving under Bones' glare.

“Yeah, he told me.” Len’s voice filled Jim's quarters where he had demanded entrance a few minutes ago. “I asked him about all the dirty secrets you were hiding about your Risan escapes. See if I could get to the bottom of your hormone issue. And just like I expected, Spock spouts off a detailed list on the spot like a machine reading off a menu. Of everything you ate and drank.” He shakes his head, hands gripped around his chest. “Then, of course, he starts fretting like he does.” Bones' voice lowered to a monotone. “Why do you require this information, Doctor? Is the captain ill, Doctor? Obviously worried sick, getting his undies in a twist about his darlin’ captain. So I told him about your head problem. Your headache that is, not all your mental issues cause I didn't have all day to explain those.”

“What happened to patient doctor confidentiality?” Jim accused, jumping up from his seat to walk to his window and then pacing back again, feeling antsy, the muscles in his legs tense with energy. He'd spent two hours in the gym this morning after he woke up at oh four hundred. Head too full, Jim had tossed and turned all night, trying to work out the endless circles spinning frantic thoughts through his head.

“I'm a doctor, Jim. I'm here to heal people, and you never make my job easy. I thought Spock might have an idea what was wrong with you,” Bones scoffed, a harsh crack of laughter infusing his scorn. “And he sure as hell did.”

“He does?” Jim dropped the model ship he had been fiddling with on his desk, one of the nacelles cracking off.

Len’s arms tightened around his chest. “You didn't know?” He frowned. “I thought you were covering back in med bay.” He took a step closer to Jim. “It's the bond. Spock told me you bonded in your ridiculous drunken mania. You know, you could've kept it simple and married the guy like a normal love sick lush would do. But no, you had to mash your head against a Vulcan's. Do you even know what kind of physiological changes that could create in your brain?” Jabbing a finger at Jim’s chest, his voice rose. Jim had to resist the urge to cover his ears, block out the shit he had been trying not to think about. “Because a sensible person would think about that,” Bones continued. “Maybe ask their doctor if this is safe, take a moment to reflect. But no, not James T. Kirk. That kid doesn't have a sensible cell in his body.” Bones’ finger was burning a hole through Jim's uniform, the repetitive thrusts sure to leave a bruise. “And Spock! I'd expect this from you, but he’s supposed to be the rational one. He was supposed to stop crap like this from happening. I can only imagine what state you got him into, to make him believe bonding was a logical thing to do.” Bones took a deep breath as he paused to roll his eyes. “God help him. He must be madly in love if he actually lost all sense of rhyme or reason when you went down on bended knee.”

“Maybe he was, but he won’t be anymore.” Jim picked up the broken nacelle from his miniature, drawing a thumb over the cracked edge, the sharp plastic pressing into his skin.

“You’re an idiot,” Bones said, grabbing Jim’s wrist and pulling the piece from his grasp, thrusting it into the garbage can.

“I know. Bones, you honestly can’t make me feel worse than I already do. I’ve ruined it with, Spock. He hates me and I hate myself for throwing him shit deep into my problems.” Running a hand down his face, Jim leaned against the desk, suddenly feeling exhausted. Len’s face started to fade in and out of his sight, strict lines blurring into sparks and black dots.

“Good, God, he doesn’t hate you, Jim!” Bones grabbed Jim’s shoulders, shaking him roughly. “He wouldn’t stop going on about his foolish errors. Apparently he’s done some big Vulcan no-no by bonding with you while you were not of sound mind. I thought he was going to have the Vulcan equivalent of a breakdown during our talk.”

Jim frowned. “But he was drunk too. On the chocolate.”

“Chocolate?” Bones asked.

“Yeah. I think it must be like alcohol to Vulcans.”

“Good grief,” Bones muttered.

“He said we can sever it. The bond,” Jim choked out, his voice dry in his mouth.

“Well, then. You two haven’t completely fucked up,” Bones replied. “I’ll need to get all the details on the procedure though. Make sure it’s safe for a human.”

“Yeah,” Jim breathed, his throat constricting. His lungs felt light, as if he was breathing air without oxygen. “I can’t have Spock in my head.”

Bones peered into Jim’s face. “You okay, kid? You’ve gone all pale.”

“Can you imagine?” Jim gasped. “Even a Vulcan couldn’t deal with this more than a few weeks.” He tapped a finger against his head slowly, his arm feeling heavy. The spots were overtaking his vision, shadows dancing in between Len’s eyes.

“You need to sit down, Jim.” A firm grip pressed into his bicep before he stumbled down into darkness.

*~*~*~*


	4. Chapter 4

*~*~*~*

I’m going to die, he thought as his hand clung to the edge of the cliff, the remains of his dad’s old Corvette in a million bright red pieces at the bottom of the canyon below him, just like he would be soon. His fingers slipped further as loose pebbles cracked under his fingers, every muscle in his arm straining, begging for release. And really, his arm was right, why not just let go? What was waiting for him above the canyon? A drone officer to drag him back to the farm and his uncle’s empty glares. No more Sam to patch him up, trying and failing to talk life back into him with his inappropriate jokes and too sensible ideas. He’d taken off—moved on to a new life of his own. And no more mom—she’d given up on him, escaped back to space.

He didn’t blame them. He hadn’t made it easy after he got back from Tarsus. He didn’t want their help, he didn’t want to heal. He just wanted to forget— his fingers slipped to the edge and—

A hand grabbed his, human but not, the skin under the finger nails and along the knuckles tinged green instead of pink. It was strong, grinding his bones together with a fierce strength.

“Jim. Do not let go,” the voice that belonged to the hand said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you have yet to visit the oceans of Persius IV,” the voice answered.

Persius IV. Jim had read about it, a planet eighteen light years away from Earth, while he was playing hooky yesterday, holed up in a corner of the public library with a data chip grabbed from the dusty astronomy section. Flipping through the pages of text full of descriptions of a different world, photos of a planet that was ninety eight percent water, the oceans filled with creatures so abstracted from anything that existed on earth he couldn’t have imagined them in his wildest dreams.

He hadn’t even seen an Earth ocean outside of photos and holovids, let alone the endless ones of Persius IV. And Tarsus had been a sea of green and yellows before the browns and reds.

“Survive and you will see Perisus IV in approximately eighteen years,” the voice promised.

For some reason, he believed it.

Jim wrapped his fingers around the cool hand, letting it drag him up, up...

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Jim,” Spock’s voice said, his ears echoing the word through his mind, or maybe it was his mind saying it to his ears. Warmth spread through his veins at the sound, the single syllable rushing with life.

“Spock,” Jim answered, although he couldn’t feel his lips move. He opened his eyes. Spock looked down at him, his eyes too full and the space between him and where Jim lay prone on a med bay bed, too far. Jim moved his hand to reach out and instead of bones moving, muscles constricting, he felt something brush against his thoughts, a foreign presence, cool and solid, yet a welcome one, something he subconsciously wanted to wrap himself in, lean against, stoke his thoughts with and explore. His whole consciousness was drawn to the warmth lighting the area in his brain where the black hole had been before it consumed him. It flickered like the flame on a Bunsen burner he once used in his high school chemistry classes.

Spock blinked, his lips parting slightly. Jim wanted to kiss him. The flame burned hotter, a bright blue.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Bones scurried over, shoving Spock aside to read the scanners above Jim’s head. Spock stepped back to give the doctor room and Jim physically ached at the distancing, low in his spine. Jim scowled at Bones.

“That’s the face you give your doctor when he raises you from the dead?” Bones harangued. One hand rested on his hip, the other on a portable scanner he was running up the length of Jim’s body.

“Am I dying?” Jim croaked, his mouth dry, words feeling remote and brash on his lips after what had just transpired in his head, meaning suffused in the simple thought of a name. A delusion or a dream.

“No, you’re in perfect health,” Bones mumbled, staring at his scanner and back up at the readout above the bed. “Which doesn’t make sense because your vitals were haywire an hour ago.”

Shifting in the bed, Jim lifted himself onto an elbow, pulling himself into a sitting position. He felt amazing, like he’d just spent a warm summer’s day napping on the beach along San Francisco Bay until his skin had gone brown from the sun.

“Perhaps the captain should not overstrain himself,” Spock’s voice intoned behind Len’s back. Jim frowned at the phrasing, as if Jim wasn’t right there in front of Spock, staring into eyes that were now directed at a point between Bones’ ear and the wall. All the implications Jim had witnessed in them a few minutes ago were wiped clean.

“I’m fine,” Jim retorted. Spock took another step back.

“Cool it, kid.” Bones placed a firm but gentle hand on Jim's shoulder, pushing him back down onto the bed. “As much as it pains me to say it, Spock's right. I don't want you moving until I know you’re not going to collapse on me again.” He threw a compassionate look, which on Bones looked like a less aggressive scowl, over his shoulder at Spock.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance, Doctor,” Spock spoke up from the corner Jim had pushed him into.

“Enlighten me,” Bones grumbled over his scanners.

Spock took a half-step forward, his eyes focused on the beeping line of Jim's heart on the overhead scanner. “You are aware that the captain and I joined in a Vulcan pair bond during our shore leave on Risa.”

“Yeah, and I wish I wasn't.” Bones jabbed a hypo into Jim's neck extra hard. Jim lamented the lack of sedation that followed.

“The morning after the event I was,” Spock paused, and Jim closed his eyes against what was coming, “distracted and not fully functional. Considering our lack of cognition the night before and the dubious state of our bonding agreement, I thought it wise to shield the link within my mind, therefore closing the exchange of thoughts and awareness between myself and the captain. However, in my haste, I did not consider the harm such an action may cause upon a newly formed mental link. His mind was likely struggling against my shielding and attempting to reaffirm the link. Now that I have removed the block, the captain’s brain has returned to its normal state.” Although Jim's eyes were still firmly closed as he tried to process the jumble of facts Spock was throwing at them, he suddenly felt the spark in his head flare, a cool heat pressing against his skull. A feeling washed over him, reminding him of the time he'd told his mom he hated her, yelling it at the top of his lungs as she stepped onto the shuttle after dumping him at his uncle’s a few months after Tarsus. He regretted it later—after the damage had already been done between them.

“Captain,” Spock's voice washed over him, “I apologize for my negligence.” When Jim opened his eyes, Spock was looking at him again and Jim saw the same thing in the angles of his face that he felt flickering in his head.

“So, you’re telling me,” Bones rumbled, “that Jim passed out because you left him mentally high and dry?”

Spock frowned slightly, studying the doctor. “I do not understand your reference to height and the lack of moisture in relation to the captain's mental state.”

Bones rolled his eyes. “You shut him out of your pretty Vulcan head.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “The aesthetic quality of my head is not associated with Jim's illness. However, you are essentially correct. Shutting him out, as you say, harmed his mental capacities. Pair bonds require a free exchange of thoughts between individuals, especially when recently formed. I could have prevented the captain's collapse by administering aid through our bond to assist him as the link settled within his mind. But, as I stated, my initial reaction, incorrectly, was to shield. A mistake I am ashamed to have made.”

“It's okay, Spock,” Jim said, lips finally separating to form a response. “I don't blame you. I wasn't exactly accommodating the morning after.” He shrugged, forcing a smile on his face. It probably looked gruesomely fake gauging by the expressionless mask Spock answered it with.

“Well I do,” Bones retorted, fragile understanding blown away on Len’s rush of hot air. “If tossing a sheet over your thoughts can send Jim to death’s door, who knows how else this bond will screw with his head.” He moved in on Spock. “So, how do we fix it?”

Straightening, Spock's hands moved behind his back. “The bond can be removed. However, the assistance of a Vulcan healer will be required.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bones snorted. “And where the hell are we gonna find one of those on the Enterprise?”

“There are currently no Vulcan healers residing on the Enterprise, doctor. As the ship's chief medical officer, you should be aware of that fact.” Spock paused. “A visit to New Vulcan to request an appointment with a healer will be necessary.”

“Fine. We're heading to New Vulcan then, god help us all.” Bones nodded, hands on hips.

“Bones, no.” Jim made a grab at Len’s arm. Considering the way his eyes were bulging out of their sockets, Jim was afraid his friend would make a jump for Spock's throat. “We're outside the quadrant. I can send a request to Starfleet Command, but we already have a full mission schedule—several of them time sensitive. No way is Komack letting us sneak in a twenty light year detour to New Vulcan so that me and Spock can get divorced.”

Bones' mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, a deluge of complaints pouring from him while Spock loomed like a metaphorical rain cloud behind him, all dark eyes and strict lines. His gaze had turned downward, to Jim's hand. A cold fog passed through Jim's thoughts until he felt numb.

“So, what are we supposed to do until then?” Bones heaved his arms skyward. “What if Spock gets cranky and blocks you out again, Jim? Or can't deal with all your human emotions and slams a mental door in your face?” He glared at Spock. “What then? Jim goes comatose?”

“I assure you, doctor,” Spock glowered back, the fierceness in his gaze overwhelming Jim for a moment. “I shall not repeat my mistake. I will assist the captain in steadying the bond until we obtain access to a Vulcan healer with the skills required to remove a pair bond.”

“It'll have to do, Bones,” Jim interrupted before his friend could start another triage. His voice echoed wearily in his head. “I'd rather not blurt this mishap to Command. It's not going to sound good, and they won’t see it as enough of an emergency to justify changing our mission parameters. I'm already deep enough in their bad books.”

For a moment, Jim thought Bones was going to threaten to spill their guts to Komack and probably get Jim’s hide sent back to Earth in the process. Not that he didn't deserve it. But the thought of losing the Enterprise, and Bones, and his crew, and whatever remained of his relationship with Spock, sunk his spirits neck deep. He'd messed up, he knew it. But he swore he'd stay away from Spock, never touch him again, if that meant Jim could stay with the Vulcan’s steady presence by his side.

“I will add my request to the captain's, Doctor,” Spock spoke suddenly, stepping to Jim's bedside. The monitor hooked to Jim's heart rate started beeping faster. “I take full responsibility for our mistaken bonding, and for preventing any effects upon the captain's physical and mental state.” Jim frowned at the sacrificial remark as the fog in his head dissipated around the edges. If he focused hard enough, Jim was aware of a hazy light stirring beyond the mist, drifting along his muscles, relieving his anxious tension.

Bones eyed Spock for a moment, both of them staring each other down, unblinking. Jim had given up trying to beat either of them in a staring match. He always ended up with jittery, watering eyes, laughing at his obvious humiliation.

“I suppose if anyone can keep Jim's head in line, it's you,” Len conceded.

Maybe Bones was right—Spock was the man for the job. But Jim worried that even Spock's towering stamina would crumble under the weight of his memories. Thoughts Jim had pushed to the back of his mind for so long they had swelled with mold and disuse.

 

* 

After fussing over Jim for an hour, trying to discover the faintest blip in his vitals, Bones gave up and shooed Jim out of med bay with a wary eye, ordering off-duty rest for the day. That was the last thing Jim needed—a day of obsessive reflection on what was going on inside his head. Spock had remained as Bones completed his examination, eyes focused constantly on the scanner above Jim. Upon Jim's release, Spock offered to escort the captain back to his quarters. Before Jim could say no thanks and escape, Bones insisted Spock prevent Jim from sprinting down the halls, and that was that.

It was the most awkward moment Jim had ever spent with his first since that time Spock had tried to choke Jim to death when they were still getting to know each other. Spock said nothing during their what-felt-like five hour walk down the corridor. When they reached Jim’s quarters, Spock bid him a formal, “good evening, Captain,” pausing a moment as if his feet were glued to the floor, before stepping away once and then twice and then the rest of the way down the hall and back to the bridge.

Jim watched Spock's back until it disappeared around the sweep of a corner, then rushed into his quarters before he heeded the temptation to go chasing after Spock. And to do what? Stare at each other in obstinate silence? Apologize? Hold each other’s hands? Drag Spock into his quarters to rehash a night he could barely remember? Shaming himself for the bad timed lust he suddenly felt, Jim jumped into the shower, setting the sonics to cold.

 

After blasting his skin numb, pacing around his quarters, and staring out his viewport for endless hours, Jim found himself glaring at the door that separated Spock's quarters from their shared bathroom. They needed to clear the air, talk about what happened and what was going to happen. About the flame in his head Jim knew must be related to Spock and his now open mind, and the hand that had gripped him in his dream, raising him from the dead.

Jim needed to get down on his knees to beg for forgiveness.

Jim pressed his hand against the cool plasteel. It was twenty one hundred. Spock would be in his quarters by now. Before things got weird between them, Jim might have met Spock around this time for a game of chess or a late dinner and a chat. Jim's finger hovered over the door's release. He dropped it and left the bathroom to knock himself out with the hypo Bones had given him his all-knowing pity.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He was of an age to be bonded. He knew this because he had heard his peers discussing their matches during the meal periods at school. Skollok was bonded with V’lin, Lerul to T’mel, and Stim would be matched with Vanus in eight days time.

While he was brushing the loose hairs from I-Chaya's fur in the courtyard so the fibers would not clutter their family living quarters, Spock had overheard his father and mother discussing their son’s bonding. His father’s voice was even, his mother’s fervent with pitched lows and highs that denoted escalated emotions, and therefore distress concerning the subject matter. His parents had paused by a window, his mother's arm gripping Sarek's shoulder, shaking the immovable muscle. Although Spock looked away, he could not turn his ears from their voices. He attempted to coax I-Chaya from the warm sun spot he had settled upon in order to distance himself from hearing a private conversation. However, when he heard his own name spoken in his mother's voice, Spock stilled his hands on I-Chaya's collar and listened. If he was discovered, father would surely scold him for invading the privacy of his elders.

“What does it matter if none of them want their children bonded to Spock? I wouldn't want our son related to a child of close-minded fools, anyway!”

“He must acquire a prospective mate in preparation for his time. It would be illogical to allow our son to enter this period of his life without a bond,” father intoned.

“How can you say that?” mother cried out. “Imagine him linked to one of those children who mock him. He'd be made to feel like an outcast in his own head.”

Spock now understood why there had been no initial bonding ceremony of his own announced. Considering the animosity he had received from his peers at school, the evidence of his surroundings should have brought Spock to his own conclusion about the reasoning behind his delayed bond. He must reflect upon his lack of logic on this matter during his meditation period this evening.        

Shrinking down against the warm mass of I-Chaya's shoulder, Spock pressed his face into the animal's fur, the low rumble of the shelat’s breathing drowning out the adult's voices.

“You're going to choke on all that fur,” a high voice laughed behind him. Spock knew it was a child's because of the higher pitch of his tone. The laughter, however, confused him. He had never heard one of his peers use the expression before. Indeed, the only reason he knew what laughter sounded like was because his mother's voice occasionally vocalized the human form of amusement within the privacy of their home.

Something nudged against his ankle. “Hey! You alive?”                                   

Straightening, Spock turned to face the child. A human, his yellow hair, bright eyes, and pink flushed skin a contrast against the red Vulcan earth below his shoes, scuffed faded things with small holes near the toes. The boy was too skinny for his approximate age and height, the bones of his face pressing noticeably through the dirt marked skin.

“Who are you?” Spock asked. “You should not be here.”

“Why not?” the human boy asked, bouncing his dusty shoes against Spock's leg. It was a negligent action with no purpose, not committed to cause harm, as Spock barely felt the impact through his robes, but which succeeded in discoloring the black hem with red grime.

“Because you do not live here,” Spock replied, impatience at the boy's illogical presence bubbling within Spock like the carbonated Terran drink his mother had allowed him to try yesterday. The bubbles had risen into his nose with the first swallow, making him to sneeze.

“Wrong!” the boy yelled, jumping up on the back of his heels. Spock raised his eyebrow as I-Chaya lifted his head with a shuffling sound at the disturbance to his slumber. He peered at the boy for a moment before resuming his repose, and Spock wondered at I-Chaya's impassivity. The boy was a stranger and therefore a potential threat to Spock's safety. I-Chaya had been known to growl and snarl at insects and neighbors when they passed too close to Spock. Yet, this peculiar human boy raised no alarm within the overly protective shelat.

“I am not wrong,” Spock argued. “No human children live in this household and my parents have not informed me of any guests.” The boy was smiling at Spock now, teeth showing between his lips. Spock did not believe the boy's misplaced bearings were a cause for amusement.

“You are so wrong,” the boy laughed. “Because I live here now.” Raising a finger, he pressed it against Spock's forehead, the area he touched warming him from within.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jim woke with a start, the haze of red sand and brown eyes fading from his vision. He was in bed in his quarters on the Enterprise, not on a planet that no longer existed, speaking to a Vulcan child that, from the similar shade of his eyes and his stubborn nature was Spock. Spock when he was a kid.

As he fell into his medicated coma, Jim had landed face first into a dream scape he knew was of his own mind’s making. Brown, dead Earth, his stomach burning, fingers ripping into a bag of crackers he refused to think about the origins of. And then the world blurred and shifted, re-materialized around him, brightening, glowing red, his stomach suddenly full, and there was Spock cuddling a giant bear.

Jumping out of bed, Jim moved toward his bathroom door. Turning around at the last minute, he grabbed a pair of pajama pants from the discarded pile on his floor, pulled them on, and then returned to the bathroom to ring the buzzer on the opposite door.

“Enter,” Spock's voice called immediately from behind the plasteel. Jim stepped through the sliding door and glanced around the neat quarters to find Spock cross legged on his meditation mat, staring up at him.

“So,” Jim spoke into the stillness awkwardly, the pressure of their tumultuous week suddenly rushing back into his distracted thoughts. He rubbed at the hairs at the back of his neck, wondering if he should have put on a shirt along with the pants. He felt a drop of sweat ease down his spine, the heat in Spock's quarters crushing against his lungs. “Did you just have the same dream I did, or am I completely nuts?”

“You are not nuts, Jim. You are human,” Spock answered. Jim couldn’t help the lift of his eyes in an exaggerated role, the tug of his lips at Spock’s ice-breaker. “Our exchange of memories appears to be an effect of the bond,” he continued.

Frowning, Jim stepped closer, the distance between them disturbing him like it had in med bay yesterday when Jim had woken to the sight of Spock's eyes and the absence of Spock's skin against his own. “That wasn't a memory though,” Jim argued, attempting to make sense of what was happening in his head. “I never visited Vulcan as a kid.”

“No, unfortunately, you did not,” Spock replied, his light tone easing the pressure in Jim's lungs despite the lack of temperature change. “However, the scene that played before the intrusion of your younger self was a factual memory of my own from when I was a child of eight years.”

Jim remembered the conversation he had overhead in the dream, as if he were Spock, feeling the disappointment, fear, and hurt that had tortured the small Vulcan's brain. Emotions he had pushed behind self-abasement and the stark realization that his peer’s aversions should have been obvious to him. Stepping another few feet closer, Jim glanced at Spock's hands and considered wrapping the fingers within his own, wondering if the gesture would be welcome. Or maybe Spock would want Jim to ignore the revelation from his past, as they had ignored the consequence of their drunken night together, until now.

“So, I crashed your dream,” Jim said.

Spock lifted an eyebrow, and Jim convinced himself the tilt of his mouth wasn't imaginary. “Indeed.”

“Sorry.” Jim scratched distractedly at his chin and shrugged.

“There is no need to apologize. Your appearance created a,” Spock paused, moving his head to the side as if searching the dictionary filed neatly in his brain for the correct terminology, “positive variation.”

Before he could think, Jim found himself sinking onto the floor across from Spock. “Maybe you don't want to talk about it, and I'll completely understand. But I have to say, I'm sorry all those Vulcans thought you weren't good enough for their kids. It’s their loss. You're a total catch and I bet they're all eating their disproval now.” Jim snapped his mouth shut, worried the flow of words spewing off his tongue had been overkill.

Spock's fingers twitched in his lap. An almost possessive urge to hold them overtook Jim's thoughts. “Their disregard is no longer of any consequence,” Spock replied in his liquid deep voice, and Jim imagined brushing his thumb along the ridge of Spock's finger nails, along the lines of his palms. He'd thought some pretty shamefully pornographic thoughts about Spock since they met, but this weird hand fetish was coming through a back door. “I have learned to find acceptance elsewhere,” Spock finished.

Spock's eyes were warm on Jim's again, like they had been during their shore leave, and a hundred times before that over a chess board, from across the bridge, during a shared meal. Or while grappling in the gym as Spock pinned him once again while displaying a Suus Mahna maneuver, and Jim thought of salad in his mouth and hypos piercing his neck to stop himself from growing hard against the pressure of Spock's body. Suddenly, without Jim remembering his hand moving, his fingers were on top of Spock's, squeezing gently. Spock didn't pull away.

“You have it here,” Jim murmured, afraid of speaking too loudly and disturbing this thing that was happening between them. “Acceptance, I mean. Here on the Enterprise. And with me.”

Spock's inhale of breath was sharp, lips parted, the sound audible over the roaring flood in Jim's ears. “I am gratified to hear that,” he whispered. “Jim?”

“Mmm,” Jim murmured, his head splitting at the seams as Spock's fingers moved to lace with his own.

“You truly remember nothing from the night of our bonding?” Spock asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Bits and pieces. But not really, no,” Jim traced a figure eight along Spock's knuckles. “I'm sorry, I wish I did.”

Spock stared at him for a moment while Jim tried to decide whether his first was pissed or not. Nothing resembling anger issued from the small flame in his head, flickering bright and steady. “It is unfortunate that you do not recall our evening together,” Spock said.

“Unfortunate?”

“It was,” Spock paused, lips pressing together. “Eventful.”

Jim's eyes widened. He suddenly wanted to laugh, but still felt nervous around Spock, as if a chuckle at the wrong moment would cause the wall to slam down in his head again. And Jim was afraid, of losing this delicate thing between them, of what would happen when they finally found the time to go to New Vulcan. Spock would tell him it was time to break the bond and Jim would agree because it needed to end before Spock saw the darkness in his friend’s head. Before it was too late and Jim found himself leaning on Spock, pressuring Spock into staying with him out of duty instead of desire.

“Eventful,” Jim whispered.

“Yes.” Spock continued to watch him, his hands stilling. “Jim, forgive me the intrusion, but your end of our bond has become distracted, as have your verbal responses. Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Looking away, Jim smiled out at the stars through Spock's viewport. “No, I'm ok. Sorry about my muddled thoughts. I know it'll be hell dealing with them.”

“Jim,” Spock’s voice intoned with a sudden deepness and an answering heat from the spark in Jim’s head. “Your thoughts are not of a fiendish quality.”

“Okay,” Jim stuttered, glancing back at Spock, the imprint of stars filling in the contours of Spock's face. “But it's only been a few days since this bond thing. You've barely scratched the surface of my thoughts.”

Spock’s eyelashes fluttered closed, a soft sweep of black against his pale skin. It was one of the things Jim remembered from that night on Risa. The feel of eyelashes as Spock brushed his forehead along Jim’s cheek, his body full, brimming with shared pleasure, feeling like nothing could ever hurt him again. ' _Jim_ ,' Spock had breathed against his neck.

Spock's hand grasped Jim’s tightly. “The bond is new. When we spoke over subspace transmission two days ago, my father informed me a certain learning curve is required for a couple to become settled within one another's thoughts.”

Jim gaped. “You told your dad about me? About what happened?” He couldn't help imagining Spock's dad showing up at his door one day, demanding recompense for intoxicating his son and infecting him with his addled human brain.

“You are incorrect to believe my father wishes to harm you, despite the illogical circumstances that were involved in our bonding,” Spock interrupted, his eyes once again on Jim's. His cheeks abruptly flushed. “I have intruded upon your thoughts again. I apologize.”

“I know you can't help it.” Jim shrugged.

“As you know, my father was also bonded to a human.” Spock glanced past Jim, at the wall above his ear. “A bond between a human and a Vulcan, when mutually consensual, can derive a great amount of satisfaction between the two parties involved. As my father and mother's did.”

And the one between them was not mutually consensual, Jim thought, his stomach sinking. Spock stared back at Jim, his eyes piercing. His lips opened as if to say more. Then closed again. He stood, their hands separating with the movement. Jim's heart constricted.

“I am scheduled for a shift in the science labs to oversee an experiment.” Nodding to Jim, Spock stepped to the door. The spark in Jim’s head tapered as he dug his fingernails into his knees.

 

*

Jim was watching Spock as he bent over his scanner. At least he's here, Jim thought to himself, and not holed away in the science labs. Uhura turned to ask Spock a question and he looked up, his face open as he replied.

Jim wondered how he could get Spock to look at him like that again, the lines of his face softened with amusement instead of wary with distrust. That look had returned last night as their hands played against each other. And ended when Spock brought up the consensual aspect of their bond.

Looking up past Uhura, Spock met Jim's eyes. Blood suddenly rushing to his face. Jim glanced away immediately, focusing on the curly mass at the back of Chekov's head. There was something stuck in one of his curls, a leaf maybe. Jim wondered what Chekov had been doing in the botanical gardens to get leaves stuck in his hair and inwardly cringed. He didn't want to think about that.

“Mr. Chekov,” Spock's voice intoned. “There appears to be a leaf caught among your hair follicles.”

Jumping like a rabbit in his seat, Chekov batted a hand at his curls until the leaf fluttered to the ground. “Ah, thank you, Commander! Am sorry for my unruly appearance.” He grabbed the leaf, shoving it in his pocket. Unruly, my ass, Jim thought, the kid always cleaned up his messes. Smiling to himself, as he signed the PADD Rand had placed in front of him, Jim remembered when Sulu had spilled coffee all over the navigation console and Chekov had flapped around with declarations of _y_ _a maygoo_ when Sulu had tried to mop up the disaster he had made of the kid's workstation.

Was it too early to drink a second coffee? Jim glanced at the clock on his armrest while requesting specs on the planet Sulu had just put the ship into orbit around. Although he had drunk a cup at breakfast two hours ago, the caffeine was already wearing off.

“Yeoman,” Spock called to Rand as she passed by the science station on her way to the turbolift. “Please bring a coffee for the captain during your next rounds.”

Jim glared at Spock as Rand gave a 'yes sir' and departed the bridge.

“Spock, come up here for a second, would you? I need your opinion on this readout.” Spock turned in his chair, nodded, and approached, standing beside the captain's chair at parade rest.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Am I overthinking this,” Jim muttered under his breath, head tilted up at Spock, “or are you actually picking up on all my random thoughts and then handling them?”      

Spock shifted from one foot to the other. “I am attempting to ease your distraction, so that you may apply your attention more fully to your command duties.”

Jim frowned, feeling uneasy at the sudden mental micromanaging Spock was performing. “I'm not distracted. My head's always a jumble of thoughts. Better get used to it until we can fill in those divorce papers on New Vulcan.”

Sulu's head turned at the word divorce, and Jim dropped his voice lower.

“Just, leave my petty thoughts alone, okay? It's your fretting that's distracting me.”

“As you wish, Captain,” Spock replied stiffly, returning to his station. Jim ran a hand over his forehead and glanced back at the view screen.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

It wasn't the first time he'd slept with Gary and it probably wouldn't be the last.

Jim wasn't sure why he kept coming back. Sure, Gary was hot, but the sex, although exciting at first in a fuck-so-hard you can't think kind of way, had become abrasive and disconnected when the novelty wore off. Every time Jim left Gary's quarters, all he wanted was a long shower and a glass of whiskey to knock himself out with for the night.

Wait, yeah, Jim knew why he came back. Because he was fucked in the head and Gary made his body feel the same.

Gary was thrusting into him, and Jim wasn't ready for it. He'd forgotten the lube again or just didn’t care and Jim should've said something, pushed Gary off of him. But instead Jim was taking it, wrapping his legs and arms around Gary's back, pulling him in further, eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard against the pain and the blood rushing to his dick.

“Jim.”

His eyes snapped open, and instead of Gary, Spock was looking down at him, eyes intense, one hand wrapped up in Jim's fingers, the other resting on his hip, thumb circling the bone. Jim felt emptiness inside him again, but Spock was hard—Jim could feel it pressed against his thigh. Spock watched him as he brushed a hand down Jim’s arm and across his stomach and he raised his hips, lips up to Spock's, moaning into his open mouth as Spock took him in hand.

Gasping, Jim kissed Spock as if he were a lifeline, pulling his body closer, exploring the sharp planes of his shoulder, the soft curves of his ass, squeezing the flesh, as Spock stroked him slowly, fingers careful and teasing. And Jim could feel them both, Spock’s skin along his body, and his own under the sensitive pads of Spock's fingers, and Gods he wanted Spock inside him to feel the movements through both their minds.

Spock was preparing him with slick fingers as Jim spread his legs, shifting under him. And then Spock was inside him, pushing slowly, watching Jim's face, reading the tension and sparks of pleasure through his hands. It wasn't enough, too slow, Jim wanted all of it, so Spock gave it to him, thrusting his whole length to the hilt, Jim's spine bending like a bow as Spock hit his sweet spot, like he knew where it was all along.

“Is this position providing an adequate amount of physical stimulation?” Spock murmured, breath hot against Jim's cheek, continuing his steady, methodical thrusts.

“Gods, yes,” Jim cried, coming in spurts all over Spock's hand.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Jim jolted awake, a bright flash against the back of his eyes. He dragged both hands across his face, and rolled over in bed, expecting his body to meet an answering weight on the other side. Groaning, Jim stretching his hand across the empty pillow, feeling suddenly desperate for the press of skin, arms wrapped around a cool body, head tucked against a shoulder.

Shit, he thought, suddenly feeling the sticky wetness inside his pajama bottoms.

Dragging himself out of bed, Jim tugged off his pants, kicked them aside and then wobbled to the bathroom, blinking in the darkness. He hosed himself off in the sonics, squinting against the lights above, head pressed against the tile.

Stepping out of the shower, he wondered if Spock was still asleep. Was the dream another shared one, or Jim’s mental perversions playing out in his head? 

How many feet separated Jim from Spock through the adjacent door to his quarters? Ten? Fifteen? His hands pressed against the door to Spock’s room, willing the metal to bend under his fingers, banging his head once against the door.

Fuck it.

Before his sleep raddled brain could imagine any consequences, Jim was punching in the override to Spock’s quarters and stepping across the threshold, through the dark room, some instinct or memory pulling his body to where he knew Spock’s bed was, halting when his knee thwacked into a bedpost, toes stubbing against the edge.

“Ow, shit!” Jim hissed, bending down to rub his bruised big toe.

“Jim?” Spock’s voice murmured from the dark mass on the bed.

“Uh yeah,” Jim muttered, feeling his face grow hot. He suddenly realized where he was and was unsure why. All he could think about was how much he wanted to bury himself against Spock’s back, press his nose against his neck and breath him in, tangling their legs together.

“Are you suffering from insomnia?” Spock voice asked.

“What?  How do you know about my insomnia?” Jim whispered.

“I have been aware of your restlessness since the initiation of our bonding.”

“Oh,” Jim mumbled, stepping around the bed, his hands feeling the way along the covers. “Sorry, has it been keeping you up, too?”

“I have acquired a sufficient amount of sleep,” Spock answered. It sounded like a cover up, neither a negative nor an affirmative. Jim’s fingers dug into the sheets, running the cloth through his fingers.

“Would you like to join me?” Spock said. The shadow in the sheets shifted the blanket further along the bed, making room. The shape of an arm reached out toward Jim.

He took Spock’s hand. Pulling Jim toward him, Spock tucked the blankets over him, his breath warm and damp across Jim’s mouth as he wrapped his arms around Spock’s neck and closed his eyes.

 

*

When Jim woke the next morning, his nose was full of Spock's hair. His face was pressed against Jim's collar bone, a hand tantalizingly low on his navel. The clock on Spock's bedside table read 6:32. He'd slept through the night.

Not wanting to disturb Spock, Jim shifted slightly, stretching muscles stiff with sleep. Spock mumbled lightly in whatever dream world he was in, curving closer against Jim, his hand slipping lower. Jim sucked in a breath.

Jim spent the minutes between 6:32 to 6:36 running unconscious fingers through Spock's hair and trying not to get hard against the still weight of Spock's hand on his crotch.

Shortly after 6:36 flashed onto the clock, Spock's eyes opened. He sat up and blinked once at Jim.                                         

“I overslept,” he said, as Jim stared at the hair he'd mussed, sticking up on top of Spock's usually neat head. “I apologize.”

Jim grinned. “You overslept what, six minutes?” He laughed lightly, reaching up to flatten Spock's bangs. When he released his hand, the piece of hair sprang up again. Jim licked two fingers and twisted the tuft between them, slicking it with salvia until it lay flat. It was an odd gesture, something that reminded him of his mother bushing his hair after pulling his toque off after a day in the snow, hat head fluffed and full of static.

Spock cocked an eyebrow at him, watching Jim's face, allowing his friend to spread spit all over his hair.

“Your eyes are a striking shade of blue,” Spock mused as Jim's fingers drifted down Spock's cheek.

“Huh?” Jim asked, starting at the sudden topic change.

“Your eyes are a striking shade of blue,” Spock repeated.

Jim brushed a hand over his eyes with an exasperated huff, self-consciously picking at the sleep gunking the corners, too aware of Spock's unwavering stare. “Okay,” Jim replied, not sure what else to say. “Um, thanks?”

Spock frowned. “Gratitude is unnecessary. I was simply stating a fact.”

“Yeah, but you chose a nice fact to state.” Jim shrugged, his waist grazing against Spock's thigh where he was kneeling next to Jim. “For example, you could have said, the bags under your eyes look considerably puffy this morning.”

Spock's lips parted, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as if he were puzzling over an experiment that wasn’t achieving the expected results. “You do not have excessive swelling in the vicinity of your eyes, Jim. Indeed, you appear to be well rested.”

“Mmm,” Jim hummed as he stretched his limbs under the sheets, arms reaching over his head. Spock's eyes trailed over the movement of muscles and sinew, Jim's skin prickling under his gaze. He wondered at Spock's ability to turn him on with just that analyzing stare of his. “Yeah, I slept well,” Jim said. He leaned up onto his elbows and sat, pressing his hip flush against Spock's leg, testing his boundaries, and finding them gloriously open. Spock didn't move, didn't even flinch. His eyes remained focused on Jim's striking blue eyes. “Thanks,” Jim breathed, “for letting me stay.”

“Gratitude is once again unnecessary,” Spock murmured, his eyes drifting down to Jim's lips. “Sharing my bed with you was not an inconvenience. I found your presence,” he paused, head tilting to the left, “comforting. If you wish to share sleeping quarters again to facilitate a prolonged REM period, I would not object.”

Jim wondered if Spock would not object to doing things together in his bed that didn't involve sleep.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Since we shared a sexual encounter within our unconscious minds last night, an act I willingly took part in and experienced pleasure from, I assumed it would be obvious that I am not opposed to participating in such acts with you.”

Jim’s lips fluttered open and closed as he gaped helplessly. “You. So.” He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “That wasn't just in my head?” Spock's eyes were drawn back down to Jim's lips again.

“Affirmative. The bond once again linked our minds during sleep to create a shared mental experience. In your dream you were recalling,” Spock blinked, “a previous encounter that, I perceived, had not provided you with an adequate amount of physical and emotional satisfaction.” Spock's hand moved from where it was gripped in his lap, to rest tentatively on Jim's knee. “Therefore, I inserted myself into the man's place.”

“You were jealous,” Jim said, feeling daring. Spock's eye sex was boosting his ego.

Turning his head, Spock glanced away briefly. The hand on Jim's knee tightened. “Although jealousy is not an emotion I am familiar with, the thoughts I felt while experiencing your fornication with this man who was unworthy of your attentions had aspects similar to how jealousy has been described to me within Terran texts and from human acquaintances.”

Jim wasn't sure whether to be elated that Spock could feel jealousy over him, even if his relationship with Gary was years in the past, or disgusted within himself for forcing this painful and turbulent emotion on Spock. He was probably a bastard for getting a thrill from this.

“I am aware that the term bastard is used as a derogatory statement by Terrans. You are not a bastard, Jim,” Spock murmured, his voice slightly heated.

“What did I say about fishing around in my head,” Jim said half-heartedly.

“To not do it,” Spock replied. “I once again offer my apologies, Jim. However, without the ability to use my shields I am finding it difficult to extract myself from the strength of your emotions. It is possible my half-Vulcan physiology is not up to the task of managing the persistent nature of our bond.”

Shit, Jim cursed himself. “Spock. No, I'm sorry. It's not like I'm helping much, either. It's just—,” Jim ran a hand through his hair, leaning into Spock, gripping his elbow. “Are you sure it's not too much dealing with all my feelings? It’s probably not something you're used to. And I don't know how long it'll be until we can get to a healer on New Vulcan.”

“I can satisfactorily cope with the existence of our bond until you should wish to have it removed.” Spock shifted, raising himself from the bed. “We should prepare ourselves for bridge shift as it is oh seven hundred, and you require time to acquire nutritional sustenance in order to function efficiently.”

“Hey, Spock.” Jim grabbed Spock's hand as he moved to leave the bed.

“Yes, Jim?” Spock gripped his hand back.

“I'm glad you jumped into my head last night. It was,” Jim smiled, suddenly feeling shy about something he'd been doing outside his head ever since others started wanting to do it with him. “Really great.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Spock replied, swirling his thumb along Jim's knuckle before slipping his fingers away to dress for shift.

 

*

Jim found himself instinctually crawling into Spock's bed again the next night, half asleep, reeling from a dream of shadows and hunger. Spock hadn't shown up in that one, and Jim was glad.

Although Spock was sound asleep this time, when Jim pressed his back against Spock's belly, his arm came around Jim's chest, pulling him close.

Jim slept, and if he dreamed, he didn't remember it the next morning when he awoke with a yawn, stretching out on his back, his hand falling onto Spock's side. When Jim moved to pull it away, with a muffled apology, Spock took his hand, placing it back where it had been. Spock's heart thumping steadily under his fingers.

*


	5. Chapter 5

The chessboard with their last game, half completed, was still sitting on Jim's table in his quarters. He picked up a black queen, brushed a coating of dust off the crown, and wondered if Spock would be up for finishing the game.

A few minutes later, the bell to Jim’s quarters chimed. Considering the questioning warmth that was filling his head, Jim knew Spock was on the other side of the door.

“Come in,” Jim called, the doors swishing open to Spock's angular frame.

“Hi, Spock,” Jim smiled.

Spock stepped across the threshold, nodding politely at Jim. “As we are both unoccupied with ship duties at this time, I thought you may be inclined to complete the game of chess we left unfinished thirty two days ago.”

“Sure.” Jim's smile shifted into a grin. “Have you eaten? I can replicate something up for us.”

“I have not eaten since twelve oh hundred, therefore a meal would be acceptable.” Spock took a seat at the chair facing the white side of the board, eyeing the pieces while Jim fiddled with the replicator. He didn't bother asking what Spock wanted to eat; Jim had been picking up on images of pasta and tomato sauce for the past few hours.

“As the last move in out game involved you removing one of my knights from the board, if you are not adverse, I will take my next move now,” Spock said.

“Go for it and good luck to you,” Jim replied, setting the replicator to whip up two plates of spaghetti, a larger one for Spock.

“Luck is unnecessary. I predict an eighty nine percent chance of my strategy succeeding against your own.”

“How the hell did you come up with that number?” Jim laughed, adding a cup of green tea to the synthesizer’s list and a coffee for himself. Usually Jim would go for a beer or a glass of wine with dinner if he was feeling fancy, but after his last, and first, boozy adventure with Spock, Jim thought drinking around his friend might be a bad idea.

“I have no objections to you consuming alcohol within my presence,” Spock answered, his fingers moving a white bishop halfway across the board.

“I never said you would,” Jim objected feebly, sticking with the coffee. He brought the drinks over to the table.

“The caffeine in that beverage will act as a stimulant, disturbing your ability to rest,” Spock stated, glaring at Jim's coffee while sipping at his tea. “As you suffer from insomnia, it would be best to abstain from drinking coffee in the evenings.”

Jim snorted, taking a long swig from his cup. “Coffee isn't causing my insomnia, Spock.” He moved his queen to the left. “The coffee is keeping me from walking around like a zombie for a few more hours.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “I assume you have discussed your sleep issues with Doctor McCoy?”

“Oh yeah, he knows about all my problems.” Jim shrugged. “We lived together at the Academy, after all.”

Spock visibly frowned. “I must question his skills if he has not been able to discern a cure for your insomnia after years optimally spent within your presence to study the details of your condition.” He moved a knight just beyond Jim's queen, close yet still out of reach.

Jim watched Spock as his eyes were trained on the board. “Probably because I’m a lost cause. Some things can’t be fixed.”

Glancing back up, Spock pursed his lips together. “That is uncharacteristically fatalistic for a man who told me he did not believe in no win scenarios.”

Jim pushed a pawn ahead a few spaces. “Trying to win an argument with you is pointless. You remember everything.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I assumed we were discussing your sleep patterns, not having an argument.”

Jim smiled despite himself, glancing quickly at Spock and then away. “Insomnia isn’t a Kobayashi Maru. I deal with it in my own way, and Len gives me sleep meds for when I can’t.” The timer on the synthesizer dinged, and Jim jumped up to retrieve their food.

Jim could feel Spock’s eyes against his back. “You are able to hide the effects of your condition well. I am surprised that I failed to notice you suffered from abnormal sleep patterns on a regular basis until our minds became linked.”

“I’ve gotten used to handling it,” Jim replied. He carried their steaming plates over to the table, setting one in front of Spock with fork and knife.

Spock's eyes widened. “You discerned my desire for spaghetti.”

“Yeah, you've been craving it all day. Your thoughts of pasta were making me hungry.” Jim took a seat again.

“That is most convenient, as you often forget to eat when the ship is busy preparing for first contact missions,” Spock said, looking overly smug as he twirled spaghetti around his fork, scooping up the ends with his knife.

Jim sighed, moving a pawn between his queen and Spock's knight before taking a messy bite of his food. “Why spaghetti?” he asked around a mouthful. The dish was outside Spock’s usual mean roster.

“My mother often prepared it for our evening meals when I was a child. I found the flavourful sauce combined with the texture of wheat noodles to be palatable.”

Jim swallowed. “Do you remember her recipe?”

“Of course.” Spock sent his remaining bishop into retreat.

“If you write it down, I can reprogram my replicator to make it.” He tapped a castle forward a few steps. “I mean, it won’t be as good, replicated food never is, but it might give you a little taste of home at least.”

Spock watched Jim as he chewed through several bites.

Blushing, Jim waggled his eyebrows at Spock, sticking out his tongue. “Take a photo, it'll last longer.”

“A photo is not as aesthetically pleasing or as companionable as having you sitting across from me.” Spock's hand reached out and Jim's fork froze halfway to his mouth. He watched the graceful progress of Spock's fingers as if it were a slow motion scene in one of those corny romance movies Bones liked to watch when he was drunk, surging string instrumentals playing in the background. “You have tomato sauce on your chin,” Spock said, swiped his thumb firmly across Jim’s skin. “I would very much appreciate the chance to taste my mother’s spaghetti recipe again.”

Jim closed his mouth and continued chewing around his smile.

“Now that we are sharing sleeping arrangements on an increasing basis,” Spock continued, “perhaps I could return the favor and use our proximity as well as the connection I currently have with your mind to discover the underlying issue that may be triggering your insomnia.”

Jim choked on a noodle caught halfway down his throat. He coughed hoarsely and Spock stood to pat Jim's back a few times until the slippery thing passed after another few swallows. “No need to trouble yourself, Spock,” Jim replied, out of breath. He pushed his fork around the plate as he cleared his throat. “Actually, I've been sleeping pretty well lately.”

“Assisting you with an issue causing your mind stress is the exact opposite of what I would deem troublesome,” Spock murmured, returning to his seat. He moved his knight, capturing Jim's pawn.

“Are you reading in on my strategy?” Jim complained, changing the topic before Spock could do or say any more selfless things, sending Jim off the teetering brink of sensibility and diving into Spock’s arms. “Is that why you predicted such a high failure rate for my gameplay?” Jim continued, pushed his queen out of the way.

“No,” Spock answered, his gaze searching. Jim looked away, his glance falling on his rumpled bed. He wondered why he never put the effort into tidying it, or picking up the dirty boxers and pants lying on his floor, before tempting Spock over with their weird mind powers for a game of chess. “I cannot read such precise details from your consciousness. The bond is still new. Perhaps, if it were left to solidify over time, we would be able to exchange such precise thoughts and our games of chess would become increasingly more competitive.” He moved his castle a few spaces forward.

Jim wondering what it would be like, to be bonded to Spock for the rest of his life. To have him keep popping up in his screwed up dreams and fixing them, to never worry about what the other one was thinking. He wondered how long it would take before Spock would get fed up with Jim, demand a divorce and leave him broken and empty after all those years of know what it was like not to be alone in his head.

“Jim.” Spock leaned slightly forward. “I cannot comprehend the meaning of your continued distress. I often feel if projected through our bond. Is it something I have done?”

Jim stared back at him wide eyed, balking at the worry edging around Spock's mouth, his separated lips, the bluing flame in his head, and chided himself for causing it. “No, of course not. Everything’s fine.” He smiled.

Spock frowned. “Fine is a disturbingly variable definition I have become aware is often used by humans to brush off insistent inquiries when they do not wish to speak of what is troubling them.”

“Yeah, exactly. Because they don't want to talk about them.” Jim pushed a pawn forward with his thumb, his eyes on the table.

Spock's fingers curled in to his palms. He said nothing. The sound of Jim's breathing echoed in his ears, sparks flashing against the back of his eyes. Lifting his castle, Spock took Jim's bishop.

Jim moved his king back a step. His hands felt sweaty and agitated—he forked another mass of spaghetti into his mouth, brushing away any lingering sauce by swiping a palm across his mouth. Rolling his shoulders, Jim glanced out of his viewport as he leaned back in his chair, massaging a kink in his shoulder. It had been bothering him ever since his morning workout.

A chair scraped against the floor and suddenly Spock's hands were against his shoulder blades, fingers spread wide, thumbs pressing into the stiff muscles. “Is this the area that is ailing you?” Spock's voice murmured, the sound reverberating through Jim's blood.

“Uh,” Jim uttered around a groan as Spock kneaded his knuckles against his skin. “Yup. Uh huh, that's the spot.” His shoulders relaxed, easing under Spock's fingers. “Spock your food will get cold, you don't need to—” he gasped as Spock increasing the pressure.

“Your trapezius is overly tight. If you experience such muscle pain again, please inform me. I have experience with Vulcan massage techniques that are effective for easing tension.” He grazed his hands down Jim's back.

“You're really good with your hands,” Jim babbled, his head falling forward.

“I am aware that one's mental health can have a direct effect on the physiology of one's body.” Spock moved the heel of his palm upward. “Perhaps, the agitation I have sensed along our link has caused this rigidity within your body.”

“I appreciate your concern, but you're reading too much into it.” Jim groaned as Spock hit another sore spot. “I just over did it at the gym this morning.”

Spock brushed a thumb down Jim's spine, the bone dissolving into liquid under his touch. “Jim, may I be frank with you?”

Jim laughed. “Aren't you always?”

“No. I find myself lacking in candor lately. I believe the last time I was truly forthright was during our evening on Risa when we spoke our vows.”

Jim froze, waiting. Spock's hands pushed down on Jim's shoulders.

“There is a barrier between us, despite my lack of shielding. As if those pillows you placed on the bed in Risa were still structured between us. I fear you are not sharing your concerns with me because you feel my Vulcan upbringing makes me unqualified to process negative emotions.”

“No, Spock. It's just,” Jim paused, trying to organize his confusion of thoughts into a sense of meaning Spock could understand. “I mean, I do worry that my excessive emotions will scare you off. Though it's not because you're Vulcan—but this bond does make the problem worse. I can’t keep my thoughts to myself, the ones I don’t want you to hear.”

“Jim. Perhaps I have failed by not expressing the deepness of my regard for you.” Spock's voice was soft, his hands even more so as he squeezed Jim's shoulders. For a moment, Jim was unsure where his body ended and Spock's hands began. “Your emotional presence will not, as you say, ‘scare me off.’ In fact, I have a desire to experience more of your mind. I find it,” Spock paused, fingers kneading Jim into a steadily unconscious bliss, “fascinating.”

Jim’s heart was banging against his chest. “How can you be sure? What if one day you hop into one of my dreams and it's an absolute hellhole, something you never want to see again.”

“I cannot be sure,” Spock replied. “Yet, despite the illogic, I can find no doubt within myself regarding this matter.”

Jim sighed, unable to resist, for a few seconds, the thought of literally bearing his soul to Spock with the knowledge his friend wouldn't blame or judge him, just simply offer an open mind.

“I'm sorry, Spock. There's so much I'm not ready to share. It’s stuff I don't even like thinking about it. I'm sorry,” he repeated, realizing how useless the words sounded.

Spock moved his hands up to Jim's neck, fingers spread around his throat, thumbs pushing into the base of Jim's head. “I will be patient then.” Jim closed his eyes, mumbled something intelligible, and leaned back into Spock's fingers, warmth tricking along his skull.

 

*

Spock was picking up on Jim's thoughts again. It wasn't like Jim could blame him. Spock couldn't shield and Jim didn't know how. And apparently an aspect of Vulcan bonds was being flung into each other’s memories and emotions unbidden, an overly intimate version of twenty questions.

If Jim was completely honest, it had its perks. Like when Jim had, finding himself in Spock's bed for the tenth night in a row, woke to Spock's fingers drawing figure eights on Jim's palm which was up turned on the pillow. And even though Jim suddenly felt self-conscious about the morning breath he must have been breathing all over Spock's face, the drool crusting on his lip, his negativity was forgotten when Spock pressed his lips to Jim's, tentative at first, mouth tight. Then his tongue flicked against Jim’s mouth, teeth nipping, until Jim gave up his attempt to save Spock from an assault of sour breath, and kissed him back opened mouthed.

Damn, Spock was a good kisser. If Spock was such a good kisser, Jim could only imagine what else that mouth and tongue could do on other parts of his body. And, visualize he did as Spock's tongue continued its exploration.

No sooner had the thought formed in Jim's head, his lips swelling under Spock's, hands continuing their calligraphy across his skin, then Spock was drifting downward, tracing kisses where his hands had been. When Spock’s mouth wrapping firmly around his cock, Jim lurched upward, the fire in his head burning away any thoughts other than the warm sensation surrounding him.

 

When Spock picked up on Jim's thoughts of grilled cheese and pickles later in the afternoon after Jim had ignored breakfast to get through a series of crew reports, Jim didn’t object when Spock suggested the captain adjourn for lunch.

 

* 

“Hey, Spock?” Jim asked, rubbing his eyes awake. Since the flame in his head flashed steadily instead of flickering like burning coals, he knew Spock had risen from his meditation.

“Yes, Jim?”

“What’s that big furry bear that keeps showing up in your kid dreams?”

“Kid dreams?” Spock’s voice asked.

Jim rolled onto his side, peering for Spock’s shape under the ten percent light setting. “The ones where you’re young,” he added. “At least it feels like you are because everything looks taller.”

Spock’s shadow materialized as he approached the bed, crawling under the covers. Jim wrapped an arm around his chest, inching close to Spock’s body heat.

“The creature you are likely referring to is I-Chaya, my childhood pet.”

Jim laughed. “Your pet? Your parents let you have a bear for a pet?”

“I-Chaya was a shelat, not a bear,” Spock breathed against the top of Jim’s head.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

“It is truly remarkable, Spock, that you have achieved so much, despite your disadvantage.”

Spock froze, willing his fingers to straighten from curled fists at his sides. It had been years since he had felt that violent surge of offense, not since he was a child, before he had built up the adequate shields to subsume the mixture of human emotionalism and powerful Vulcan feelings that controlled his thoughts. He knew his accomplishments could rival any other Vulcan in his age group. Yet, once again, Spock’s strict adherence to Surak’s teachings was overshadowed by his blood.

“If you would clarify, minister. To what disadvantage are you referring?” Illogical to ask as Spock already knew the answer.

“Your human mother,” the minister confirmed.

Spock watched them. Any pride he experienced over his acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy dissipated. A sudden image of the stars flashed before his eyes, the background from a Starfleet pamphlet he had perused as he submitted his application to the VSA, knowing one path was primarily fed by obligation to his father and his people, while the other had set his mind afire with the temptation of the unknown. He had followed Starfleet operations silently with a discreet browsing of news feeds and mission reports on his PADD in their family living quarters, devouring the scientific discoveries being recorded. He knew such experiences would be impossible if he remained on planet, away from the infinite number of unchartered territories throughout the galaxy. When applying to the VSA at his father's suggestion, Spock had submitted a second one to Starfleet Academy as well. It was logical to cultivate multiple options for his future career.

And now the elders were calling his human mother a limitation. The only person in his life who truly embraced the clashing of his blood, just as easily as she had accepted the restraints of Vulcan society after bonding to his father. When he told mother about his desire to join Starfleet , she had smiled broadly and encouraged him to, “follow his dreams.”

“Well, that's the biggest load of bull I've ever heard,” Jim muttered at the council, an elbow crossed on Spock's shoulder. He leaned against him, dressed in nothing but a pair of Starfleet issue boxers. It was fortunate the captain was wearing anything. As of late, Jim generally slipped into Spock’s bed unclothed.

“This is a dream,” Spock said to Jim.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Jim grinned.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “It is fascinating that you have decided to infiltrate my memory of a pivotal moment that directed the course of my career at Starfleet.”

Jim snorted. “Of course I did. You told me about this day, remember? When I asked you why you decided to join Starfleet. I wanted to see you shut the old geezers down in person.” Jim shrugged. “And thank them for giving me the best first officer in the fleet.”

“The council is comprised of respected Vulcan elders, my father among them,” Spock admitted.

“If they're so wise and respected, you think they'd have a better sense of IDIC, and not make jabbing remarks against your heritage,” Jim scoffed. He was pacing about now, his arms waving around him as he spoke heatedly. “I mean, look at you! They should be holding you up on a pedestal instead of dragging you down. What better example of infinite diversity is there? A half human, half Vulcan who’s probably ten times smarter and more logical than all the self-obsessed ass wipes I've seen you throw down in your dreams.”

“You have an exceptionally high opinion of my skills,” Spock replied.

Jim stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Of course I do,” Jim whispered, a sense of disbelief in his voice, a soft wash of affection flowing along their bond that made Spock's feet curl. “I have two eyes and two ears, don't I?”

Spock looked away, back at the council, frozen in their judgmental grimaces as his unconscious mind paused in its retelling of this particular memory to allow for Jim’s interruption. “Although I did not think so at the time, I find I no longer feel any residual anger for the council's words. As you previously stated, if they had accepted my VSA application without commentary, I may not have found myself on the Enterprise.” He turned back to Jim, who had pressed himself against Spock's side, hand warm in his. “Nor would I have met you.”

Jim smiled sweetly. The description was illogical, as Jim's lips never tasted of sucrose, even though Spock found himself devouring them on a frequently occurring basis, his appetite for Jim's mouth increasing with each taste.

“So,” Jim said, “you going to tell these guys to go fuck themselves, or what? It's pretty obvious you wanted to join Starfleet anyway.”

Spock's lips twitched upward. He turned back to the committee.

“Thank you, Ministers, for your consideration,” he said. “But I must decline.” Nodding briefly, he turned swiftly to leave, the knowledge of what awaited him filling him with gratification. “Live long and prosper.” As the words left his mouth, Spock heard Jim yell a loud wordless expletive that, by the lightness of his tone and the bark of laughter that followed, expressed approval.

“Stick that up your butts, assholes,” Jim yelled at the figments of Spock's memory.

“Jim,” Spock chided. “Insults are unnecessary. They cannot hear you.” Spock remembered the tumult of emotions he had felt at the end of this day differently. He had felt disquiet, concern about the logic of his decision, that he had let impulsive emotions direct his future onto an unstable path. He had felt fear that he would receive the same scorn from Terrans at Starfleet Academy as he had from his Vulcan peers; half-blood, always different, never quiet belonging. But now, with Jim yelling cheerful obscenities at the fading council, slapping Spock on the chest with a grin, he had never felt so sure about his decision.

“Yeah, but it felt good.” Jim flung an arm around Spock's shoulder, pressing his lips to Spock's cheek. Spock could not control the pleasure that flooded the projection of himself within his unconscious mind.

 

*~*~*~*~*  

 

Jim watched Uhura as she was translating a Nylegian communication he had just received from their ambassador. The universal translator was having trouble deciphering the language’s syntax and kept producing broken sentences in Standard.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jim asked.

Uhura’s eyes darted back and forth over the script on her PADD, her fingers tapping across the screen as she made notes. “If it’s about my poker strategy again, the answer is still no. I’m never giving away my secrets.”

Jim laughed. “No, I’ve given up on that. It’s a personal question. About Spock.”

Placing her PADD on the table, she glanced up at him. “You can ask it. And if I can answer I will.”

“Did Spock break up with you or you with him?” Jim blurted out.

She sighed. “I broke up with him.”

“Oh,” Jim said, rubbing a thumb distractedly along the side of his PADD. “Why?”

She crossed her hands on top of the table. “Because something was missing between us. The right kind of love, I suppose. It’s hard to explain, but I could tell his heart was elsewhere.”

Jim nodded, scrolling through the document on his screen. After being in Spock’s mind over the past month, experiencing the strength of his emotions, Jim suspected the ‘elsewhere’ had been directed toward him. Guilt flashed through him—it didn’t seem right that Spock would choose Jim over someone as resolute and accomplished as Uhura. Apparently Vulcan hearts were just as unpredictable as human ones.

“Why do you ask?” Her foot kicked him lightly under the table. “Worried Spock’s a heart breaker?”

Hearing her say it out loud made his trivial apprehensions sound ridiculous. “Perceptive as always,” he smiled.

Uhura shook her head. “Spock’s the steadiest guy we know. You’re overthinking his feelings for you, and probably your own as well. I don’t know what kind of insecurities are floating around in your head, and I don’t expect you to tell me, but whatever they are, Spock isn’t going anywhere.”

Jim rubbed a hand against his nose, glancing to the side. “Did he tell you what happened? On Risa?”

“A little bit. I know about the bond.”

Jim looked back at her, watching Uhura’s face for disapproval. He found nothing in her open expression.

“Being in his head,” his shook his own, pressing his fingers into his jaw, “it’s amazing.”

Uhura smiled at him. “But scary as hell?”

Jim nodded. “There are some things a guy doesn’t want to share. Even with someone he cares about.”

“Maybe you should,” Uhura shrugged. “Spock’s a good listener and you’re doing him a disservice if you think he can’t handle your secrets.”

Jim stared down at the table. “

“Here,” Uhura shoved her PADD under his nose with the completed translation. “Nylegian’s sure are long winded. You might be able to learn something from them.”

 

*~*~*~*~*                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

He plucked the paper from his nose, swiping a hand to brush off the crusted blood, wincing at the bruising that was probably blooming blue, brown and ugly all over his pretty face, but not really giving a shit because at least it would make his face easier to look at in the mirror. If his face didn't quite look like his, he could almost pretend he was someone else instead of a grown up version of that kid he wanted to forget.

Sniffing, he grabbed a frozen bag of peas that had been sitting in his freezer since god knows when, spotted with blood from the last three bar fights. He pressed it against his face, his thoughts blurring.

Collapsing onto his unmade bed, Jim stared up at the glow in the dark stars he'd grabbed from the corner store when he first moved in to this hell hole, all leaky and crumbly, but at least a hell of his very own. He had scattered the stickers over the cracking paint on the ceiling in a creative fit of home improvement after a few too many beers. They made his ceiling look like a five year old's. But watching them, glaring at them until his eyelids tired, vision spotting neon green, sometimes helped him sleep.

“You should clean your wounds to prevent infection.”

Jim squinted through his swollen eyes, past the dark room, and the hazy edges of memory. “Hey,” Jim murmured.

“Hello, Jim,” Spock replied.

He supposed this must be a dream, or his face would hurt with the movement of bruised cheek muscles. And neat, beautiful Spock wouldn't be making Jim’s shitty apartment suddenly look like paradise.

“Are you scouting my dreams for trouble?” Jim chuckled. “First you pull me off a cliff, then you save me from a bad lay, and now you’re protecting me from imaginary infections. You keep showing up at really convenient times.”

“As your first officer, and as your bond mate, however temporary, it is my duty to assure both your mental and physical health.”

“You got the shit end of the duty stick, Spock.”

“No.” Spock spoke quietly, but the words warmed Jim’s thoughts, easing the press of swelling skin against his face. “If given the choice to choose which end of the stick I would receive, I would desire no other than the one I have been given.” Jim heard Spock's footsteps echo through the room, moving past his bed and into the bathroom. Cupboards opened, the tap ran. And then the mattress sunk under Jim as he felt Spock's presence beside him and all through him.

“Please sit. If you will not clean your wounds, I will tend to them for you.”

Jim shifted upward, leaning against the headboard, the metal pressing against his back. “Why?” he asked, Spock surprising him again and again. Despite the commander's obsession with straight logic and black and white rules, Spock had been slowly revealing himself as the most unpredictable person Jim knew. “This is my dream face, not my actual face. There's no point patching me up,” Jim argued.

“Not in a physical sense, no,” Spock answered as he dabbed a cloth with disinfectant Jim was pretty sure never existed in his actual cupboard. He pressed it against the cut along Jim's jaw. “However, although they cannot be seen by the psy-null eye, injuries of the psyche require as much attention as those to the body.”

“Shit, Spock. That's deep.”

“Not as deep as these wounds.” Paper tore and a bandage slipped across the cut, a finger pressing along its length.

“Not sure a band aid is big enough to cover up the giant bruise in my head.” When Spock jumped into his mind it probably looked like the moon's face, no atmosphere to protect it from the blows of space junk. His head needed a surgical team, or a large rock to the skull.

“Perhaps multiple applications of bandages may prove effective over time.” Spock placed another strip over Jim's forehead. “Not all wounds can be swiftly healed with such devices as skin regenerators.” Jim closed his eyes as Spock dabbed at a cut underneath his eye. “It may help if you explain why you are in this state of injury. I sense a modicum of turmoil through our bond, an indecisiveness that is irregular for your personality.”

“No wonder,” Jim smiled against the careful movements of Spock's fingers across his features. “This was the night Pike recruited me.”

“Clarify. You have not shared this experience with me during our conversations.”

Jim shrugged. “Not surprised. It wasn't one of my shining moments.”

“I am aware I passed judgment upon your decisions in the past before I became more acquainted with your person. However, as my opinion of you has drastically altered with the development of our association, I can assure you I will withhold judgment if you wish to share the specifics of this memory with me.”

Sighing, Jim watched the steady reflection of Spock’s eyes in the dark. “I got into a fight at a local bar with Giotto and some of his buddies back when they were cadets and I was still a farm boy. Uhura never told you about this? It's how we first met.”

“No.” Jim could feel Spock’s breath against his cheek as he leaned in to inspect a bruise. “But if you first met Nyota during a brawl within an establishment that serves inebriating substances, it explains many of her aversions to you during our initial acquaintance.”

Jim laughed out loud. “Yeah, and for some reason it made Pike think I wouldn't be a complete disaster in Starfleet.”

“His assumptions were correct.”

“Still not sure how I managed to convince you I wasn't a complete screw-up though,” Jim murmured. Spock brushed the cloth along an eyebrow.

“Your ability to recover the Enterprise and its crew from multiple disastrous situations, despite the odds, was adequately convincing,” Spock stated.

“I’m probably still running on dumb luck.”

Spock removed his hand from Jim’s face, staring down at him. “Belief in luck is illogical. It is our actions and responses to the situations we find ourselves in that direct our successes and failures.”

Jim snorted. “Like how we found our minds slammed together on shore leave?”

“Indeed.” Spock lifted Jim's chin, inspecting his handiwork. “You had reservations about joining Starfleet, as I did.”

“Yeah. That's the indecision you’re picking up on.”

“May I inquire as to why?” His hands left Jim's face, closing the box of bandages and the bottle of disinfectant.

Jim leaned his head back, staring up at his plastic stars. “I was afraid of screwing up, pure and simple. That I couldn't live up to my father's name. That I would put all my hopes and energy in to getting my own ship and then find out I didn't deserve it.”

“I do not understand. Your intelligence scores are well above average, you completed the Academy courses required of every Starfleet officer and proved your worth by finishing them in three years instead of the estimated four. You have put your own life in danger on multiple occasions to protect your crew. You have successfully led and managed thirty-eight first contacts, eighty-six delegation missions, and one hundred and twenty-two planetary surveys. Why are you considering your place among Starfleet through an unconscious reimagining of former insecurities?”

Jim laughed again, unsure whether to be amused or distraught. “Sometimes it's hard to forget the past, Spock.”

“Reflecting on past experiences can provide valuable life lessons that prevent us from reliving former mistakes. However, it is not uncommon for our present selves to improve on our past selves with the added knowledge and experience one gains over time.”

Jim smiled, eyes returning to Spock’s. “And the people we've met,” he whispered.

“Affirmative.” Spock's hand rested on Jim's knee. “From the lack of sunlight appearing through your window, I judge the hour to be late. You should rest to allow your body to recover from the trauma experienced. The shuttle to the Academy will likely be leaving at an early hour.”

Jim gripping Spock's hand in his own. “I'll sleep better if you join me.”

Spock agreed silently as he pulled the mess of sheets from the bed and slid next to Jim, pulling the blankets over both of them.

 

*

Despite Jim’s mumbled complaints, Spock curled away from Jim's grasp and unfolded himself from the bed, expressing a need to “relieve his bladder.” Groaning against the light, Jim flopped onto his back, watching Spock walk across the room, all straight smooth lines. Jim grinned and wondered if Spock would be up for round two after he was done taking a piss.

As Spock returned from the bathroom, he bent to the floor, picking up the pieces of Jim's uniform he had left strewn about when Spock's not so innocent back massage had turned to the removal of Jim’s shirt, and Jim eventually deciding that if he was going to scrap one piece of clothing, he might as well tear off the rest. And Spock's too. 

Jim kept expecting Spock to tell him to stop, pull his hands away, demand he remove himself from his quarters and stop practically living there. Every time he moved to touch Spock in an intimate way, every time he stepped into Spock's room uninvited, he anticipated this would be the day, the moment Spock would shut it down because eventually this bond thing would end and Jim wasn't really sure if Spock still wanted Jim without it.

But every time Jim touched Spock, Spock reciprocating by talking Jim's hand, kissing him, pulling him into bed. Jim still wasn't sure if he was shocked by how sexually responsive Spock was, or whether he predicted it all along.

Spock folded Jim's clothes neatly, pressing each piece into precise halves, creasing the edges into crisp lines. He placed them in a basket of clothes to be deposited into the cleaning chute.

“Why are you folding dirty clothes?” Jim asked with a chuckle, affection bubbling at the sight of Spock and his neat-freak habits. “Isn't it kind of illogical? They're just going to get all crumpled in the wash again.”

“Sustaining tidy living quarters allows for better focus,” Spock replied. “Wrinkled clothing on the floor is a distraction. Therefore, for this purpose, I do not find it illogical to spare a few moments for the neat arrangement of soiled clothing.”

“Is that why you're always getting me to come over to your place?”

“No,” Spock turned, stepping back towards Jim. “I did not want to intrude.”

“What?' Jim sputtered, startled. “You wouldn't be intruding. You can barge into my quarters whenever you want. Haven't I been doing the same?” He licked his lips, brushing a hand through his sleep mussed hair.

“Negative. Your visits are most welcome.” Spock stared at Jim, his eyes slightly more rounded than usual.

Jim opened his mouth then closed it. Grabbing Spock's wrist, he tugged him forward. “Well, same to you.” He pulled Spock back into bed, the Vulcan's body offering no resistance.

When Jim returned to his quarters later, he picked up the clothing he'd left strewn in a pile on the floor.

 

*

Jim had volunteered himself for the landing party, ordering Spock to take the conn while he was gone. A lingering sense of attachment had tugged at their bond, the flame reaching forward as Jim left for the transporter room.

The planet was beautiful—a forested landscape of thick brush and tall gangly trees, their branches covered in blue leaves with white moss climbing up the trunks. The science team were having a field day. Lieutenant Zh’variq was inspecting several of the local plants with ecstatic movements of her tricorder while Ensign Marshall collected soil samples a few meters away. They didn't need the captain here, Jim knew that. This was a basic planetary survey, and Jim's knowledge of botany and geology were basic, garnered from required introduction courses at the Academy, Spock's summaries of finalized reports from the science department, plus a few academic journals Jim had skimmed through during his free time. When his eyes first started trailing Spock, his image of the commander shifting from insufferable colleague, to tenuous friend, to blazing attraction, Jim had been determined to stuff some sciency know-how into his brain in order to impress Spock during their conversations.

Jim had been itching to stretch his legs beyond the ship’s exercise room for weeks. He offered to assist the team in whatever they needed, but they had brushed his smiling offerings aside, assuring him they had everything under control. He was sure they did—Spock had assembled a top notch team. Starfleet and the science community were already raving about the discoveries accomplished by the Enterprise. Several papers compiled by Spock and senior members of his department had been published in some of the Federation's more notable scientific journals. Every time Spock mentioned his newest publication, and the discovery involved, half of which Jim could barely comprehend the underlying significance of, Jim's chest swelled with pride.  
  
Although the area possessed no dangerous life forms—much of the mammalian species on Eyter II were small herbivores that posed little threat—Jim had brought Lieutenant Bisho from security with the team, along with himself. If he couldn't help the blues with their work, at least he could scout the area with Bisho and make sure the equivalent of rabbits and mice weren't about to pounce upon his crew on force.  
  
Jim lifted his head to the sky as he leaned a hand against a tree, running his fingers through the furred coating. It almost looked like the snow that decorated Iowan trees during winter, but when he touched it, the stuff was spongy and slightly damp. The sky was a warm green that reminded him of the ocean on Risa. And, naturally, thinking of Risa brought Spock to mind.

He should've been selfish and dragged Spock along, despite the commander's full schedule. Then Jim could enjoy watching that intense focus spread across Spock’s face when he discovered something new and was trying to break it down into numbers or atoms or chemical properties. Spock had a voracious need to understand every single aspect of something whether it was a new life form, the French cuisine Jim had introduced him to last night, or the particular positioning of his hand that made Jim mumble obscenities during sex. Jim wanted to watch the movement of the flame in his head as Spock became excited about moss properties or the composition of a leaf, his face and posture remaining neutral while his thoughts raced and expanded, filling Jim's head with wonder.  
  
Looking through Spock's eyes gave everything an added shade of fascination.  
  
Rubbing a leaf between two fingers, crisp like autumn leaves on Earth, Jim closed his eyes, soaking in the light of two sister stars on his face. Bones had insisted Jim wear sun block before beaming down. Jim hadn't listened until Spock followed him into his quarters as he was packing and rubbed the cream into his skin with firm fingers.  
  
As he experienced each sensation, feeling them against his flesh, seeing them through his eyes, hearing the strange call of a bird the science team had yet to name, Jim directed impressions to the flame burning steadily at the back of his mind. He wondered if it would work, if Spock could pick up on these little details, thoughts and images, from where he sat on the Enterprise’s bridge above the atmosphere of Eyter II.  
  
A wave of affection blazed along the flame, the power of it almost knocking him off his feet. Jim leaned against the tree, the moss a warm cushion against his back as he breathed through the emotion. A soft blanket of gratitude followed shortly after.

A grin spread across Jim's face. Behind his mind's eye, as if he were recalling a vivid memory crystal clear in the details, Jim saw the bridge, the bright yellow cloth on the back of Sulu and Chekov's backs, Uhura's voice calling out a communication update from the landing party, Eyter II reflected on the view screen, the cool plasteel on the armrest under his fingers. But not actually his fingers because they were longer and thinner and tinged green under the nails and around the knuckles.  
  
Spock was sending his own sensations through the bond in response, letting the captain know all was well back on the ship.  
  
For the hundredth time, Jim wondered whether this accidental bond was actually a blessing in disguise, a gift he never knew he needed until it was in his possession.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

He did not know why his unconscious mind choice to replay this scene repeatedly in his mind. The experience had lessened in the past year, yet occasionally he would dream of his mother and the last time he saw her face.

Spock had not seen her in person since his departure to Earth the day after he refused admission to the Vulcan Science Academy. They spoke over the years via subspace transmissions, his father always absent from the calls despite his mother's attempts to persuade him. At the time, he still held an illogical grudge over Spock's abandonment well after his son had achieved a successful career within Starfleet. In the end, it was mutual grief that mended their relationship.

Spock had unsuccessfully attempted to rearrange the scenario in his dream fifty six times and perceive a logical way of saving his mother through circumstances that could not be achieved at the time due to a lack of foresight. Since he knew he was in a mental reimagining his mind had structured in his state of unconsciousness, it should be possible to save his mother, if not in his real life, at least within his dreamscape. However, when his mother appeared on the cliff face, his body moved through the motions his eidetic memory recalled to the finest details, while his mind screamed against its immobility.

In approximately eight point three seconds the ground would crumble under mother and she would disappear from his sight as the glare of transportation flooded his vision into wakefulness. Yet, still he stood motionless beside his father and the other surviving elders, their figures a blur in his peripheral vision, his eyes focused on his mother, waiting for the inevitable.

“Hell no—not this time,” Jim yelled, his form surging into existence, rushing past Spock. As the cliff face began to disintegrate, blue light flashing before his eyes, Spock suddenly feared that he would not only helplessly watch his mother fall to her death, but Jim as well.

And then Jim had mother by the arm, pulling her forcefully back and away as white flooded Spock's vision and the transportation room on the Enterprise emerged before him. Spock turned, and behind him stood Jim with an arm wrapped around mother’s shoulders, whole, alive, and safe for the first time in his memory.

“How did you do that?” Spock asked, his voice sounding high and flustered in his ears. Exceedingly over emotional. He attempted to relax his features.

Jim shrugged. “I just did it.”

Spock wondered if this was his own dream, or Jim's, or a meshing of both—Spock's memories mingling with Jim's forcefulness.

“Are you okay?” Jim asked, his face narrowing into concern. He helped the dream vision of his mother become steady on her feet. Mother smiled up at Jim and Spock felt regret that the two never met in reality. Spock knew she would have approved, would have encouraged him to leave the bond intact if Jim was willing, would have noticed the contentment, excitement and humble joy in Spock despite the blank canvas of his facial features. She could always read him like she translated her books of old Golic poetry.

Jim was stepped towards Spock now, a hand outstretched. “Something weird is going on in your head, I can tell,” Jim insisted, and Spock reached out, squeezing Jim’s fingers between his own, ignoring the stares of the elders behind Jim. They were not real, anyway. The only reality in this dream was himself and Jim.

Jim's hand was warm, flesh and bone solid beneath his grasp.

“Thank you,” Spock whispered.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

For the first time, Spock had climbed into Jim's bed while he was asleep. Jim woke to the smell of Spock's shampoo, the bland perfume-free stuff with a tangy scent of soap and cleanliness. Spock was clinging to him, his arms wrapped around Jim's belly, face tucked against his neck. He looked so vulnerable and innocent, that Jim's throat constricted for a moment, the back of his eyes burning.

This is special, he thought.

Jim wondered if anyone else had seen Spock like this. Uhura, maybe. Probably his mom when Spock was still a child, before rigor had been drummed into him by culture, habit, and force of nature.

Jim brushed a hand through Spock's hair, along his cheek, across the bow of his lips.

Glancing at the clock, Jim decided he had another thirty minutes before they absolutely had to be awake to get ready for alpha shift. He reset the alarm, and closed his eyes, burying his nose and hands into Spock's hair, lulled to sleep by the smell of soap.

*


	6. Chapter 6

“Jim!”

Briefly, Jim considered darting into the toilets where his friend wouldn’t follow because Bones had a weird thing about conversing in bathrooms. But, enough was enough, he decided; Jim would have to face his friend eventually. Len had been not so stealthily chasing Jim around the ship for the past few days, trying to pull him into med bay, his quarters, somewhere out of Spock's hearing for a heart to heart that Jim was suspiciously certain would have an accusatory, not-something-Jim-felt-like-talking-about, tone.

Jim turned, coming face to face with his maker. “Ok, Bones. Lay it on me.”

“Lay what on you?” Bones growled. “The fact that you're acting like a child afraid of taking his medicine? Not knowing what's good for him like a common mindless beast?”

Jim crossed his arms and waited.

“Jim,” Bones breathed, his voice quieting. “Let's have a chat.” He gestured Jim into his office, and Jim followed meekly because really, Bones was right about this one. Jim needed to start talking, and if there was anyone who could untangle Jim's wildly diverging thoughts, it was his CMO.

“You want a drink?” Bones asked as he pulled two glasses from a cupboard, filling them halfway full with amber liquid, the last from his stash of Georgian bourbon. Jim knew Bones meant serious business when he pulled out the good stuff.

“Yeah, thanks.” Jim took the glass. When Bones offered you a drink, you accepted it whether you wanted to or not.

“You look good.” Bones eyed Jim over the rim of the glass. He took a long sip then sat down, leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the desk. “For God’s sake, Jim, sit down. You look like I'm about to bite your head off, all wide eyed and dopey faced.”

“Yeah, and I wonder why that is?” Jim sunk into the chair across from Bones and glared. His friend rolled his eyes in response.

“I just wanted to check up on you about this bond business. Every time I try to ask you about it, you change the subject and make some excuse. And Spock is as closed mouthed as ever.”

Jim shrugged. “There's nothing to tell. We're handling it fine.” Jim sipped his drink, wincing around the bite of alcohol. “Having Spock in my head has been kind of nice, actually.”

Bones grimaced. “Each to their own, I suppose.” He watched Jim for a moment as he took another swig, feeling like he was diminishing under the aggressive observation. “I meant it. I haven't seen you look this,” Bones paused, tapping a finger on his desk, “content. And not that maniac, everything is fine and I don't want anyone to know I haven't slept in forty eight hours, face you put on after getting us out of another disaster. You look normal.”

“Uh, thanks?” Jim replied suspiciously, waiting for Len to get to his point.

“You haven't been to med bay for a refill on your sleep meds,” Bones stated forcefully.

“I haven't needed them. I'm sleeping fine.” Jim took another small sip. He anticipated what Bones would say next, the disapproval and discovery of some fault that would break his spell of fragile happiness.

“Because of the bond with Spock.”

Jim's eyebrows drew inward. “Probably.”

“Well, then.” Glancing at the wall, Len tipped his head back for a long draw at his bourbon.

Jim counted the seconds of silence, staring into his glass, swirling the liquid until it tumbled in waves just below the rim.

“Maybe you should consider keeping this mind link.” There was a thunk as Len’s glass hit the table. He reclined in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “It's some crazy voodoo I can't wrap my simple human brain around. But if it can keep Jim Kirk in bed for more than a few hours, it's gotta be more good than bad.”

Jim gaped at him. “I'm dreaming. I can't believe you're actually suggesting this.”

“Close your ridiculous mouth before you catch flies.” Bones sighed. “You don't want to keep the bond? Because I'm having a hard time believing that after seeing the love struck look plastered on your face. And Spock doesn't look much better, the way he simpers around you like a puppy dog.”

“I'm not sure Spock wants to keep the bond.” Jim stared back into his glass.

“Do you want to keep it?” Bones demanded.

Jim looked up at the ceiling. If he was honest with himself, dug deep past his doubts and the warning signs telling him he’d regret it, he did.

“Yes,” he whispered. “And I'm getting the feeling Spock does, too. But, it's like we're in the honeymoon stage. He's barely scraped the tip of the iceberg in my head.” Brushing a hand over his face, Jim placed his glass on the table, his stomach roiling around the alcohol. “He's all duty and sacrifice, and bonding seems like a big deal for Vulcans. If we let the bond stick, I'm worried Spock will stay with me because he thinks it's the right thing to do, even if he's secretly clawing to get out. And that would tear me up, Bones. I just—I don't want to put him through that. I don’t want to feel his rejection in my head.”

“Jim,” Len’s voice softened, the voice he used when Jim was finally getting serious and the doctor in him wanted to ease the pain. Although Jim appreciated how much Bones continued to care, he wished he could escape his friend's eerie skill of truth pulling. It made Jim feel guilty, burdening all his crap on Bones. “To be honest,” Bones continued, “I doubt Spock would've agreed to the bond if he wasn't sure about you, smashed or stone cold sober.”

Jim watched his friend, the truth in his words unable to settle among the doubts in Jim’s mind.  

“Does he know about Tarsus?” Bones asked.

Closing his eyes, Jim shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe from what's recorded in my Starfleet files. He probably looked at them before signing up with the Enterprise. But, not everything, no. All he would know is that I was there, and that I got out alive.”

“That's what you're getting worked up about, then. That he doesn't know about the shit you went through.”

“The shit I did,” Jim corrected, looking away, hands gripping into fists in his lap, fingernails digging into his palms.

“The things you did to survive,” Bones emphasized, leaning across his desk. Although his couldn't see them, his gaze focused on Len’s array of medical supplies on the back counter, Jim could feel the will in his friend’s eyes.

One night, holed up in their room at the Academy, both of them drunk out of their minds to celebrate surviving a week of finals, Jim had revealed everything to Bones. Their mouths had increasingly become loose with truths as Bones described the hell he’d been through with his ex-wife, his eyes welling up as he talked about his daughter and how much he missed her. It was the first time Jim had seen Bones cry.

Jim had been overwhelmed with trust for this old man who had just bared his soul. The first friend he’d ever made who really stuck by him, put up with his attitude, and watched out for him even when Jim hated him for it. The need to unburden himself had swelled in Jim’s chest and throat until he thought he might choke if he let his story lie any longer. So, Jim had told Bones everything, all the disgusting, shameful details. After the torrent of stuttering words and choking sobs had finished pouring from Jim’s mouth, the constriction of bottled up memories was replaced by a cold fear that Bones would recoil, kick him out, request a room reassignment the next day. Finally daring to glance from the window where his eyes had remained during the whole tale, his heart had tightened, and then sunk at the look of sadness on Bones’ face. Tears streaked his cheeks. Reaching over, he had taken Jim’s arm, and gripped it tight.

“It’s okay, kid. It wasn’t your fault,” he had said. And Jim had almost believed him.

“Jim, you have to tell Spock about Tarsus.”

“I know,” Jim said, his voice all gasping breath.

“He’ll understand.” Len had come up behind him, his hand gripping a shoulder. “And then you’ll finally know it’ll be all right. Having someone you love know all your secrets can do wonders for a guy’s conscious.”

“And if he isn’t okay with it?” Jim whispered, glancing back at Bones. His friend’s face had softened with concern, the sight causing Jim’s throat to constrict.

“Well, at least you’ll know.” He patted Jim’s shoulder twice, bending to refill the glass Jim had barely emptied. “And then this what if game you’re playing against yourself can finally end.”

 

*

“Hey, Spock. If we get this divorce, do you think we could start over? You know, take it from the beginning and try dating?”

They were in the dining hall eating lunch and Jim realized this was probably a bad time, and an even worse place, to bring up their tenuous relationship. The words had been stuck at the back of his throat for the past two days and Jim had finally worked up the courage to say them. His overactive mind kept holding them back, a game of cat and mouse between his brain and his mouth, until the pressure of anticipation burst.

Spock stared at him over his plate of salad. The look in his eyes felt endless, and Jim could only guess at their meaning, grasping for certainty in the dark. “I have no desire for the romantic relationship we have been cultivating for the past thirty eight days to end,” Spock responded.

“Oh,” Jim breathed. He wasn’t sure why he thought Spock would say otherwise.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

This was familiar—the scorched fields, the pit in his stomach, the haze in his head. But this time he wasn’t alone and no, no, not now, not ready—

 

Gods he was hungry, so hungry. He wasn't sure how he was still standing, still running, tripping and hobbling, moving one foot in front of the other, hiding in bushes and behind trees at the faintest sound. He dug out roots in the ground, so dry they crumbled into dust in his mouth, making him cough and splutter when he swallowed, wasting the meager food on gasping exhalations of breath. His stomach constantly groaned, the bite of acid eating through the lining a constant pain he'd learned to ignore.

He remembered Ms. Carleson's biology lesson about the human digestive tract. She explained how stomach acid broke down food, blending it together into a disgusting brown-green smoothie before pushing it into the bowels to be absorbed into energy and then expelled. At the time, Jim had thought the whole system was gross in an interesting weird way that made him think about why their bodies had evolved into living breathing garbage disposals. Now, the thought of that churning mass of stomach fluid just made him hungrier.

That was the last image in his head before the boy came into his in-and-out hunger blurred vision.

The boy's back was facing Spock, his hand madly thrusting in and out of a bag of oatmeal, the paper cracking around his hand, his teeth grinding on the hard flakes, the sound echoing through the trees. Stupid, leaving himself in the open like this. One of Kodos' guards would hear the noise, so out of place on the wasted planet, level a phaser at his head, and _pow_. The kid would have it coming. Then _they_ would get the food.

Spock was thinking but not thinking, jumping at the boy’s back, the strength in his muscles coming out of nowhere, striking and hitting, making a grab for the food. He was so hungry, so hungry, and the stupid kid was pulling at his hair, the dregs of his shirt, punching at his nose. He was stronger, the boy had eaten more recently—the impact made Spock's head spin and blacken, anger filling his stomach with hot air. And somehow a rock had ended up in Spock's hand or maybe it was there all along. If the stupid boy had just let go, he wouldn't have had to use it.

 _‘No,’_ Jim’s voice echoed through the memory but it was too late and—

There was a lot of blood. It was dying the brown grass, filling it with life. It stained his hands, the rock that rolled and fell out of his manic grasp long after the boy had stopped struggling. Spock clawed the bag of oatmeal from the boy's grip, tugging at the rigid fingers. He didn't need it anymore. Spock did.

Stuffing the last handful of oatmeal at the bottom of the bag into his mouth, Spock chewed, his mouth watering around the dry crumbs, his legs carrying him off on an unknown path back into the trees.

 

The man found him after that. Maybe it was the same day; maybe it was later when his stomach felt like death. No food since he'd licked the dust from the inside of the oatmeal bag.

Jim couldn’t decide how to feel about what was going to happen. Maybe he should be glad. The guard had food, and he would give it to him. Which meant Jim wouldn't die with his face in the dirt, acid burning a hole through his stomach, his heart slowing to a stop. Jim might not be alive now if it wasn't for the man. The thought filled him with hate, the emotion chewing through his veins.

They practically walked into each other. When he saw the flash of blue, Jim screamed at his idiot self for not hearing the crunch of dry leaves under foot. And just as his head was setting off a delayed warning to run, the man's arm was around Jim’s, tugging, dragging his too thin body behind him like a piece of string. Jim's legs scratched uselessly against the ground, the harsh sounds from his mouth sounding weak and meager. The man just smiled back at him, and the look in his eyes wasn't of death but of hunger. A look Jim knew all too well.

The man had a small bag of carrots, sliced into neat thin sticks. Bright orange, more alive than anything Jim had seen in ages. Jim wanted the carrots more than anything.

He used to hate carrots.

The man handed him a single stick. Jim's hand swiped in into his mouth, almost swallowing it whole, his salivary glands immediately watering for more—the fiber hitting his stomach setting off a chain reaction of need.

He could have more, the guard said, his eyes all over Jim while his mouth moved around the carrot. His hand stroking down Jim’s arm.

If he paid for it.

Jim was so hungry. The snap of his teeth around the carrot echoed through his ears. He sucked desperately at the sweet fragments stuck in his teeth. Starring at the bag of carrots hanging from the man’s hand, swinging back and forth, Jim’s vision filled with orange, his head nodding, eyes unblinking.

 _No,_ his mind said, _not this_. But the rolling mad dash of hunger and sensation didn't end and then the man was taking him and Jim let it happen, his thoughts drifting up and away, the only thing stopping them from snapping away from his body like a lost balloon was his growling angry stomach. And Spock was horrified about what was being done to his body but not his body—Jim's body, which should want to escape, but didn’t because then it would all be a waste and he wouldn’t be fed. Spock tried to control the surging mixture of emotions, his and Jim’s, past and present, to push the direction of Jim’s subconscious and make it stop, to save Jim the pain of this happening to him over and over again. But it wasn’t working, the memory too strong, despair choking at the back of his throat. He wanted to scream, but his weakened body was unable to put forth the effort—

 

The man promised to bring more food in two days. Jim came back. And returned again the next two days after that, and again the next, days flashing into one another, the act becoming like a chore, not meaning anything beyond the reward he would receive afterwards –the looming thought of the slice of bread, the handful of nuts, a few leaves of watery lettuce drowning out the pain, the soreness, the gagging in his throat.

His stomach was never full, the meager offerings just keeping him alive. And for what, Jim was too tired to care.

Maybe the guard was getting sentimental because one day he gave Jim two handfuls of nuts instead of one and Jim felt sense seep into him with each angry swallow of every crumbling piece. He followed the man after their encounter, quiet and unseen—saw where he was stationed with three others. For two days he watched them behind trees, within the covering of dried up bushes, tracked their comings and goings as he rationed his nuts, whittling away at a stick with a sharp rock.

The last time he let the man use him was when he thrust the stick with the last vestiges of his energy into the man's back—where he knew, from Ms. Carleson's biology class in the sunny classroom before the famine, before she'd been shot in the head by phaser-fire with the other non-essentials when Jim had run, run like a coward, where the kidneys were. And the man screamed, blood curdling, Jim's blood yelling back with grim joy. Jim pulled out the stick and struck again and again with one last thrust before dashing off into the woods, running, running again, he was good at that, to the guard station which he knew would be empty now. He piled food in his arms, stuffing and swallowing what he could, filling the remains of his pockets, before running back into the woods, in the opposite direction of the man's body and every memory of what had been done to his own.

He came across other kids. Starving, cheeks caved in, ribs showing in stark contrast against their flesh. They begged him for a swallow, a mouthful of food. Jim kept running. How dare they, he thought, how dare they think it's that easy.

He'd gone through hell and back to stay alive. Jim wasn't about to give his lifeline away for free.

Starfleet arrived just as Jim was on his last bag of carrots, the tops beginning to mold, each bite sharp and overly sweet in his mouth. Just as Jim had begun eyeing the guards, from his lookout in the bushes. Searching for that same hungry look.

Jim felt the flame burning in his skull, a tumult of indistinguishable emotions, and knew he wasn't alone. The memories, the recurring nightmare, had overwhelmed him, and of course Spock was in his head and had seen it all. The thought of Spock witnessing what he had, doing what he had done, the blood on his hands, feeling the man's breath on his body, the desperation in those kids’ eyes as he had ran, horrified him so completely. This wasn't the way he wanted Spock to find out, in such explicit detail. No, he thought, _no_. His thoughts blurred.

 _Jim—_ a voice in his head said.

And then, just as the flame burned bright, the darkness in Jim's head smoothed it until only smoke remained.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Jim was alone in his own bed when he woke the next morning. Flinging the bedsheets from his sweating body, Jim jumped into the fresher and left the bathroom without a glance at the door to his first's quarters. Tugging on his uniform, he left for the bridge, ignoring breakfast, his stomach aching from the memories and rolling from the thought of Spock experiencing it with him. He slammed the images out of his head before they could resurface, calling out a command to the turbolift controls roughly. When he arrived on the bridge, Spock was missing from the science station. Uhura informed him the commander had reported in sick, concern written all over her face.

They had been on the Enterprise for over two years and Spock had never been sick.

Jim opened a new notification from Starfleet Command on his PADD. Komack had received his request for shore leave to New Vulcan and was considering processing it after the completion of their next survey.

Well, Jim thought, that's the end of that.

He didn't dare visit Spock's quarters after shift though his head buzzed with worry. Worry that he had sent the Vulcan out of his mind with revulsion. Jim wasn't sure he could bear the look in Spock's eyes. Imagining his friend’s warm gaze shifting to horror made Jim feel sick.

Spock had called Jim honorable during one of their missions, a risk taker after several others, a hero after the Khan incident, too negligent with his own safety when he had jumped off of Nero’s drill to grab onto Sulu without a thought in his head. And each time Spock complained about Jim's selflessness, Jim had felt an ease settle over the dull thrum of guilt at the back of his mind. Now, Jim was pretty sure Spock would never look at him with that mix of exasperation and admiration again.

 

*

Bones' voice roared at him over his communicator.

“Jim! Med bay. Now.”

He was too tired for Len’s grievances about monthly allergy prevention hypos or whatever. The insomnia was back. Every time his head hit the pillow, Jim worried his sadistic mind would drag him back into Tarsus hell. And because of the bond, Spock's pristine thoughts would be pulled down too, the innocent bystander struck by a collision of Jim's memories.

Jim had managed to ignore Bones for about ten minutes until his communicator whistled again, the noise piercing through his building headache.

“Jim!” Len’s voice hissed through the crackle of the communicator.

“What?” Jim barked.

“Where are you? Spock's ill.”

Jumping up from his chair, Jim rushed to the turbolift. “I'll be right there.” He snapped the device shut. A million different worries assaulting his conscience. Jim was certain he'd somehow overheated Spock's brain with his unconscious meltdown.

Jim careened into med bay to the sight of Spock comatose on one of the beds, Bones hovering over him.

“What's wrong with him?” Jim asked in a rush of breath.

“You, probably,” Bones muttered, confirming all of Jim's deepest darkest fears. “He's experiencing the same symptoms you did when he blocked his mind last month.”

“What?” Jim said, confused. He had expected Bones to say Spock was brain dead from an overdose of Jim's fallacies.

“You heard me.” Bones glared. “What did you do? I told you to open up to Spock and get this confusing mess between you resolved, not zip yourself up like a winter coat.”

Jim stared down at Spock's prone form, hands itching to touch but too afraid to follow through, unsure if Spock would want that anymore. “I did open up, that's the problem,” Jim answered. “I had a dream about Tarsus—the worst stuff—and I'm pretty sure he was in there with me. Actually in my body, experiencing it all. And now he's like this.” Pressing thumb and finger between the bridge of his nose, Jim shook in head, fear overwhelming him. He didn't know what he'd do if something was really wrong with Spock.

“Damn telepathy,” Bones sighed. “Whatever happened to just talking to people?”

“I didn't want him to find out like this, Bones. Telling him about it would've been one thing, but having him actually see—it's like pushing someone into the deep end.”

Bones glanced down at his scanner and then back up at Jim, brow furrowed. “Jim. What happened after the dream? Did you talk about it?”

Jim shrugged, looking at the wall, the floor, anything but Len’s searching gaze and Spock's lifeless body. “Well, no,” Jim sighed. “I didn't—well, I didn't think he'd want to.”

“What about your head?” Bones stepped closer, eyes narrowed, as if he could force himself to see the inner workings of Jim's brain. “Can you feel Spock in there now?”

Closing his eyes, Jim thought about the flame that had been burning steadily in his mind ever since Spock lowered his shields. Sometimes it had been a small glowing ember, at others a large blue flicker that fired through his neurons, feeding Spock's thoughts and emotions through Jim's own.

The flame was gone. Instead, where it usually sat in the recesses of his mind was the black hole he remembered from the bitter days just after the bond. And around it a slight orange haze, as if it were being eclipsed by the dark mass.

“No,” Jim said. Normally he could feel Spock's presence, a calm press of compartmentalized emotions. Occasionally he picked up on a scent or a taste that was not his own, whenever an experience especially triggered Spock's curiosity or sense of pleasure. “I'm not getting anything.”

Bones nodded. “You must be shielding. Like Spock did.”

Jim's eyes widened. “How?” he barked out a gasp of almost laughter in his mad state of disbelief and fear. “I couldn't even stop Spock from the grumblings of my stomach, let alone my whole consciousness.”

“You just experienced a major psychological episode. Humans have been known to block their own traumatic memories. I'm not surprised you'd be able to do the same to Spock. Of course, you can't contain your own damned thoughts, forcing yourself to live it all over again in a senseless chain of self-flagellation,” Bones huffed, raising his arms skyward as if he were begging some higher entity to save him from the insufferability that was Jim Kirk. “But you can do it to save Spock from hurting.”

“How do I stop it?” Jim demanded, grabbing Bones' arm. “If I unshield, Spock will wake up, right? Like I did?”

“Probably,” Bones sighed. “Look, I'm no expert on Vulcan bonds. But if you were dealing with a full-blooded human with none of the psychic mumbo jumbo, I'd say just talk straight with each other and don't hold anything back. So, you have to figure out how to do the same thing inside your thick skull. Don’t be afraid to open up to Spock, and trust that he won't go running for the hills.”

Jim ran a finger along the mattress of Spock's bed, trailing a line centimeters away from Spock's limp hand. “That hard, huh?”

“That easy,” Bones grumbled.

 

*

Sitting on a chair Bones had slammed with a grunt by Spock's bedside, practically shoving Jim into it, Jim poked and prodded at the black wall in his head until his vision started to speck and blur with shadowy smudges. He closed his eyes, hand resting next to Spock's on the blanket, curling his fingers into the cloth.

 _I'm here, Spock_ , Jim thought. _If you want me._

No reply. No burst of flame.

How the hell was he supposed to knock down a figurative wall in his head?

Maybe he was going at it the wrong way. Jim generally showed his emotions through action and touch. If Spock had particularly moved him, Jim would touch the Vulcan's shoulder, the small of his back, and more recently, take his hand.

Spock had a thing for hands. In the rare instances when Spock initiated touch with Jim, he would take his hand, rubbing their fingers together, tangling them into a knot. All of this feeling between them had been set off by a desperation to keep each other warm and alive, cold hands grasping for each other in a sleeping bag on Ceti Alpha III.

And a Vulcan kiss, he remember suddenly, the memory submerging from his amnesiac night on Risa. Before their bonding, Spock had shown Jim how Vulcans express their affection with a slow drag of fingers.

Jim brushed his hand up the blanket until his palm struck the tip of Spock's fingernails. He paused for a moment, staring hard at the ridges of Spock's finger bones and the wrinkling skin over his knuckles. With an inhale, Jim took Spock's hand and squeezed tentatively.

Nothing. The darkness continued to glare through his mind.

Jim sighed, leaning his head against the chair, thumb running carelessly over the back of Spock's hand. Now that he was finally touching Spock again, he couldn’t stop. The idea that this may be the last time he was allowed to brush his fingers innocently over Spock's sent a burning need into Jim's chest. He closed his eyes and tried to think about nothing but the feeling of Spock’s dry skin under his fingertips.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Spock's fist flew into Stonn's face, the child's head whipping to the side. His body barely moved in response. Stonn had always been a formidable force, taller and bulkier than the other children in his peer group. The boy was being illogical. He would not let Spock pass, even though Spock was adamant that he must.

Jim needed him.

“You have no bondmate,” Stonn said. “No one desires a link to your emotional half-human mind.”

“I do!” Spock yelled, tears streaming down his face, the shame of such an expressive act forgotten under his rage and the need filling his katra, calling him back to Jim, telling him to find Jim. He needed to feel Jim in the emptiness of his mind again, surrounding him with light and color and sadness and joy and a myriad of other emotions, negative and positive, but all of them right and whole, blanketing him in their belonging. Making him feel at home. Wanted. Desired.

“I must go to him. Remove yourself from my path, Stonn.”

“Who is this boy you speak of?” Stonn argued. “None of our peer group have been assigned as your bondmate.”

“That would be me,” Jim said, coming up beside Spock, taking his small fingers in his own. “Got a problem with it?”

Stonn's eyebrow rose, as Spock turned to Jim who now appeared as a child to match Spock's own form in this warped memory. His eyes were big, hair unruly, the same face Spock had seen when he reached over the cliff face during their first shared dream. The same boy who had visited Spock in the garden where he sat with I-Chaya, positive that he would never belong. The child who suffered in Jim’s memories from the tragedy on Tarsus IV, but now so full of life with a stockier frame, red cheeks, and bright eyes. Jim's grip tightened around his hand.

“I'm sorry I left you alone,” Jim whispered. “Especially after what you saw.”

“You are here now,” Spock replied simply, taking a step closer to Jim so that their shoulders touched.

“This boy is human,” Stonn complained. “Humans are an illogical species. Bonding with one is unwise, even for a half breed. His mind cannot be wholly compatible with a Vulcan’s.”

“Hey!” Jim yelled at Stonn, shaking his fist. “You don't know what the hell you're talking about, dumbass.”

“He is over emotional,” Stonn stated. Even through his impassive features, the mockery in his tone was evident. “A bond with him will prompt a similar reaction within your own mind until you are no longer able to follow a logical path.”

“Negative,” Spock said sharply, his back straightening, the warmth of Jim's hand steadying him. “I welcome his emotionalism. A bondmate accepts the whole and does not object to the individual parts of his partner. His dynamic mindscape provides a complimentary contrast to my own. When I am with Jim, both my productivity and thought processes are heightened by twenty seven point three percent. I have no desire to bond with any other.”

Jim grinned at him. “You really know how to woo a guy, Spock.”

“Apparently,” Spock replied. “As I managed to convince you to become my bondmate before we had fully considered the prospect of a romantic attachment between us.”

In response, Jim leaned over, pressing his lips to Spock's cheek, which bloomed with heat under the contact. “Let's take this jerk down together,” he murmured into Spock’s ear.

Spock nodded in acquiescence. “Our thoughts on this matter are in tandem.”

Jim leapt forward toward the bulky Vulcan, pulling Spock willingly behind him—

 

And then they were standing hand and hand in a field of wheat, the stalks blowing gently from a westerly wind, sun hot on their faces. Jim watched Spock lift his face to the light, round childish features once again chiseled into the fuller lines of the man he knew.

“This is Tarsus,” Spock said.

“Yeah,” Jim whispered, running a hand across the feathery tops, the seeds tickling his skin. “It was a beautiful place before it went to hell. I used to come out into my grandpa's fields after school with my books and just lie out here and think until dinner time. When it's dark, there's a great view of the night sky. I tried to count all the stars once and fell asleep. My grandma almost had a fit when I wasn't in my bed the next morning.” Jim chuckled lightly.

“I am gratified to hear your childhood contained such contentment, yet deeply saddened that it did not endure for the entirety of your youth,” Spock said, his eyes on Jim again. Jim's breath caught in his throat and he forced himself to swallow around the feeling before answering.

“Tarsus ended up being a real mixed bag of emotions for me,” Jim murmured, pulling away a piece of wheat. As he rubbed the seeds between his fingers, a grassy smell wafted up his nose, filling him with nostalgia. “My mom was recommissioned to a starship for a deep space mission when I was seven or eight, so she sent me to Tarsus to live with my grandparents. They had started a wheat farm on the colony a few years before. Sam, my brother, went away to school since he was older. I was pissed at first. I didn’t want her or Sam to leave me behind and I ended up saying some really horrible stuff to mom before she left. Anyway I didn’t see her or Sam again until after the famine. And then I was too much of a mess to let her try to make things ok between us again, no matter how hard she tried. We used to be really close, when I was little.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I hated Tarsus before I arrived, learned to love it as it became my home, and then despised it again when it dried up.”

Spock listened to him, gaze steady, thumb stroking his knuckles. Up and down.

“I’m really sorry you had to find out about my shitty past the way you did, Spock. I—” Jim shook his head, flopping down into the grass, pulling Spock down with him. A disturbance of golden seeds drifting up around them, the dusty flecks landing within Spock's perfectly coiffed hair. Reaching over, Jim brushed them away. Spock's eyes fluttered closed at the contact, lips twitching momentarily to the right. “I wanted to tell you about everything in a more, I guess, less graphic way. But I kept chickening out.”

“I am sorry you found it necessary to block me from your thoughts,” Spock murmured, softly. “You imagined I would recoil from you after witnessing the pain you experienced in your past and the abuse that was inflected upon you.”

Jim brushed a hand over his eyes. “I did terrible things.”

“You were in an appalling position.” Spock’s hand was tight around his palm. “I understand it is in your nature to blame yourself for situations beyond your control, however, it is illogical to do so. You were suffering from starvation and mental incapacitation. Your body was attempting to do whatever it had to to survive. You were only a child. I do not know if I could have persevered in such circumstances as you did.”

Jim stared at him. “You're honestly ok with this? My messed up history? The questionable morals? The insomnia? My obsessing and my insecurity?”

“Yes,” Spock answered. “I would not engage in a romantic relationship with you, Jim, if I was not willing to accept all that you are.” Spock’s head tilted the left, as his eyes drifted across Jim’s face. “As you have accepted me.”

“That’s easy,” Jim smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “You only believe so due to your insight into my character being metaphorically tinted by romantic affection for my person.”

“Guess we’re in the same boat then.” Jim grinned briefly before his lips straightened. “You should know—you’ll probably get mixed up in some bad memories again,” Jim sighed. “You’ve seen what a state my head is in.”

“Then we must determine to create pleasant memories together in order to counteract the negative. Perhaps, over time, if you have positive experiences to occupy your unconscious mind during repose, it is less likely your brain will find it necessary to dwell on the past.” Spock’s fingers drifted up to caress the veins along Jim’s wrist. “I will endeavor to assist whenever possible.”

“I’d really like that.” Jim’s empty hand moved to squeeze Spock’s knee.

“As you have shown me a setting from your memories that once provided you with joy, perhaps I could reciprocate by sharing one of my own with the delayed purpose of two romantically involved individuals becoming familiar with one another.”

“Show me everything, Spock,” Jim breathed, leaning in. “I want to see it all.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Our trip to New Vulcan's been approved,” Jim called out, walking in to Spock's quarters through their shared bathroom two weeks later, waving his PADD with the notice from Komack flashing on the screen.

Spock's head was emerging from a fresh thermal shirt he was pulling over his chest. Jim glanced at Spock’s exposed stomach, thinking about how his intrusion was a few seconds off. Since Spock had confirmed Jim barraging into his quarters was a welcome experience, catching Spock partially naked had become a game to Jim, timed by the sound of the sonics, the predictability of Spock's sleep schedule, and the wisps of lust Jim occasionally felt along their bond. When Jim had used the latter as an invitation to walk into Spock's quarters half naked himself, he'd asked Spock afterward, the lust dissipating into a haze of contentment, whether his controls were slipping or if he had purposely pushed the desire through their bond in order to sidetrack Jim from the paperwork he had been intent on finishing. Spock admitted his controls were still firmly in place, but that it would have been illogical to hide his sexual urges when a willing participant was approximately six meters away and required his own distraction from tasks Spock had sensed were creating a prodigious level of boredom.

Reaching out, Jim tugged at the end of Spock's shirt, patting it over his belly. “What do you think?”

Spock lifted an eyebrow, taking the PADD, his eyes moving back and forth and he scrolled through the text. His glance returned to Jim. “Did we not agree to keep our bond intact?” Spock asked, a small ache beginning to emanate from the flame in Jim's head.

“Yeah, of course,” Jim grinned, taking Spock's hand, squeezing until the flame returned to a steady flicker. “Just giving you one last chance to change your mind.”

“Has your opinion on the matter altered negatively?” Spock asked, his eyes steady on Jim's.

“No.” Jim's smile broadened as Spock tugged on Jim's hand lightly until their hips pressed against each other.

“Then neither has my own,” Spock murmured against Jim's mouth. Jim's hand, the one not entangled in Spock's firm grasp, moved to play at the bottom of his bondmate’s shirt, lifting upward, the flame in his head burning hot and bright.

Jim decided his timing had been perfect after all.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed and would like to share this fic, here's a convenient Tumblr reblog link: <http://noodleinabarrel.tumblr.com/post/139636878324/thylabigbang-title-the-morning-after-author>
> 
> Cheers to the mods at T'hy'la Big Bang for running this challenge. I've been picking away at this story for almost a year, and a deadline prompted me to finally finish it.
> 
> If you'd like to keep in touch, I can be found on [tumblr](http://noodleinabarrel.tumblr.com) for spirk fangirling and fic writing updates.


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